


no man is an island (oh this i know)

by confidentialityspice



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 82,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3090425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confidentialityspice/pseuds/confidentialityspice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My name is Felicity Smoak. For five years, I was stranded on a desert island with only one goal: survive. Now I will fulfill Robert Queen's dying wish to use the list of names he left me and bring down those who are poisoning my city. To do this, I must become someone else. I must become something else."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Turn up the music and pray that she makes it through](https://archiveofourown.org/works/971234) by [La_Pacifidora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Pacifidora/pseuds/La_Pacifidora). 



“You have extensive scar tissue, broken bones that never healed properly…”

“I’m aware of what I’ve been through for the last five years, doctor.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to put you on the spot. But… maybe there’s someone you can talk to. A grief counselor, maybe.”

“Is that necessary?”

“I highly recommend it, but it’s not mandatory.”

“Then I politely decline the offer. I’m fine, doctor, really. Just being home is already doing wonders for my mental health.”

Dr. Lamb looks hesitant, but he folds his hands behind his back and offers a brittle smile.

“Very well, Miss Smoak.”

 

* * *

 

Walter Steele did not become CEO of Queen Consolidated overnight. He rose through the ranks just like anybody else, utilizing his background in business and law in order to expedite his climb to the top. Over the years, he and Robert Queen, owner and CEO of the company, became best friends. They trusted each other, they were confidants, and they were always completely honest with each other.

Walter was content to run the day-to-day operations while Robert boozed and schmoozed his way across countless mergers and fundraisers. Together, they grew the company to fifteen times its original size, acquiring several smaller companies and expanding into several different industries. They were a dream team, a well-oiled business machine in a rapidly declining city.

The day the Queen’s Gambit capsized, Walter simultaneously lost his best friend and found himself in charge of the biggest company in the world. A lot has changed in the five years since, but Walter’s deep-seated guilt over the fate of a young lady hasn’t waned one bit.

He pauses outside her hospital room, assessing the young blonde woman who has her back to him as she looks out over the city. Dr. Lamb is beside him, running through a checklist of her injuries and scars in a hushed voice, but Walter barely hears him; he can only register the sound of his blood pumping in his ears, and the way his skin crawls with shame. When he can bear it no longer, he places his hand on the doorknob and pushes the door open.

“Miss Smoak.”

His voice booms through the room, and for a moment, he regrets the volume. The young woman he remembers would’ve jumped, turned, and blushed before launching into a string of babbling about the lights of the city or the steady flow of traffic in the streets below, but she doesn’t jump. She only turns slowly on the spot, as if she’d been expecting him all along.

Her face looks much the same as he remembers, besides the usual lines that come with age. She also looks deeply tan, but that’s common for being stranded on an island for five years, isn’t it?

Dr. Lamb had mentioned the scarring on her back and torso, the jagged knife wound on her thigh, the crude tattoos that had been etched into her formerly fair skin. None of that is visible now, while she’s wearing jeans and long sleeves, her hair falling halfway down her back in blonde ringlets. She could be anybody right now, with her unmarked face and her normal clothes, but she’s not. She’s his responsibility. She’s his mission.

He meets her wary eyes, unsure of how to proceed, but then she breaks into a radiant smile as she says, “Walter.”

Walter feels as though a great burden has been lifted off of his shoulders. He lets out a breath and smiles back, tentatively stepping into the middle of the room.

“Miss Smoak, I know there’s nothing I can say to make up for what you’ve gone through. The Queen family has set up a sizable account for you, and you’ve been granted shares in Queen Consolidated --” he blurts rather inelegantly, but he stops as she holds up a hand.

“We don’t need to talk about money, Walter. And please, call me Felicity. I think we’ve earned that.”

She says it with a friendly smile, but her tone belies something more steely. Walter hesitates, narrowing his eyes at her. “Restitutions need to be made. You’ll be set up for life.”

“I appreciate that, but I don’t need it.” She says it simply, but it still feels vaguely threatening to Walter.

“Miss -- Felicity, please, let the Queen family do this for you. They feel -- I feel -- responsible for what has happened to you. It’s the least we can do.”

“We?” she repeats, cocking her head slightly. “Are you speaking as the CEO of Queen Consolidated?”

“No,” he says tersely. “I’m speaking as the husband of Moira Queen. It’s our family’s desire to make sure you want for nothing for the rest of your life. It’s not a bribe or hush money. It’s simply a gift.”

She stares at him with a shrewd expression, and more than ever, Walter feels as if he’s talking to a specter, an exaggerated version of the young upstart he remembers from her days running the IT department at Queen Consolidated. But almost as soon as that thought crosses his mind, the expression is gone, replaced with the first genuine smile he’s seen since walking into the room.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself, Walter,” she says gently, coming to stand in front of him. “Anyone else would’ve jumped at the opportunity to go on a scouting expedition with Robert Queen. But no one else would’ve been tough enough to survive what I’ve been through.”

Her words send a chill down Walter’s spine even as she beams at him with the old warmth he remembers. “That is fortunate for all of us,” he says uneasily.

“Relax,” she continues, patting him lightly on the arm. “I know you’re one of the good guys, Walter.”

When he leaves, Walter pauses by the elevator, taking a deep breath to settle his nerves. There was something distinctly unsettling about Felicity Smoak, something dangerous. It’s in her eyes; he can’t put his finger on it, but the coldness behind her eyes gave something away.

That’s when he makes his decision: He’ll never tell Felicity that his stepson, Oliver Queen, was supposed to be the one on the Queen’s Gambit that fateful day.

 

* * *

 

“Survive.”

She remembers the sound of the gun, the way his hand fell away as his head tilted back. She’d stared in horror at the man who, only 24 hours earlier, had been her jovial and compassionate boss, a man she was only just beginning to understand.

She’d interned at Queen Consolidated for only two months before Walter Steele, the COO of the company, had offered her a full-time position in their IT department. “You have skills we can develop and put to good use, Miss Smoak,” he’d said with his usual British politeness mixed with affection. “We have a six-year plan for an Applied Sciences division, and you can be on the fast track to head that up if you play your cards right.”

For a woman who had only graduated from MIT three months prior, Felicity couldn’t believe her good luck. Well, she could. She really was that good at her job. But still, the perfect storm of ineptitude that existed at QC before she got there, plus Walter’s desire to bring the company up to the cutting edge of technology, felt like an extremely fortuitous set of circumstances for Felicity at the time.

Walter was true to his word and put her on the fast track. She attended every training seminar and technology conference they could fly her to, and she thrived under the pressure. She was good at her job. Technology was her bread and butter. And she was so busy that some nights, her dinner literally consisted of only bread and butter, so she felt pretty qualified to be making the comparison.

Then one day, Walter approached her at her desk with what he deemed a “once-in-a-lifetime opportunity” to accompany Robert Queen on a scouting expedition to the North China sea aboard his yacht. Walter had spun a yarn about Robert’s technological challenges and how he’d need someone on hand to help him through the process, but when Felicity had cocked her head with a wry smile, Walter had relented. “He needs someone who will keep him in line. Someone who makes sure he doesn’t fall over the side of the boat after having too much to drink.”

“And I’m the best person for the job?” she’d asked skeptically.

“I wouldn’t offer it if I didn’t think you were fit,” Walter had said brusquely, clearly annoyed at being questioned. “Think of it as some valuable face time with the boss. This could go a long way to getting you moved up through the company.”

“Or it could make him hate me when I pour his rum over the side of the boat.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Walter had replied immediately. “He drinks scotch.”

Felicity had grudgingly accepted the job. As much as she didn’t want to be in close quarters with Robert Queen on his yacht -- and bear the brunt of the whispers that would inevitably follow -- she’d always loved the sea and couldn’t deny that the one-on-one time with Robert would be valuable. So she’d accepted the assignment and packed her bags, showing up at the docks just in time to see Robert kissing his wife goodbye as the captain readied the yacht.

She was there in time to see another blonde woman, about her age, sneaking onto the yacht as soon as his wife was gone.

Needless to say, Felicity didn’t have to worry about unwanted advances from her boss. Everything between them was strictly professional until they were the last two on that lifeboat.

“Tell my wife… my kids… Oliver and Thea… that I loved them…” Robert had mumbled as the gunshot that had killed the captain still rang in Felicity’s ears. “Tell them, Felicity.”

“Mr. Queen, I don’t --!”

“Promise me!” he yelled.

“I -- I promise!”

“You have to survive this, Felicity,” he said gravely, gripping her hand with his own. “Survive this for me. For the city. Right my wrongs. Protect my family. Survive.”

She cried as the shot rang out, choked back sobs as he slumped backwards, turned away as the lifeboat continued to rock along the current aimlessly. She was already slipping away from the promise. She couldn’t survive this, not with the dwindling rations and the unrelenting sun and the dead body.

She wakes up from the nightmare, unnerved by how fresh the memory feels even though it was only the beginning of her five years of torture. She’s laying prone on the floor of the hotel room, unaccustomed to the softness of the mattress, the plump pillows, or the comfort of a duvet. She’s covered in sweat and she’s shaking.

It’s storming outside, and the rain buffets the window angrily, like it knows why she’s here.

She jumps to her feet and pulls on workout clothes, intending to go to the gym. She casts a long look at the large green trunk in the corner of the room, wedged between the TV stand and the dresser. It's incongruous with the modern clean lines of the hotel furniture, just like Felicity sticks out anywhere she goes.

She hadn’t been a celebrity before she left, but coming back from the dead tends to make you famous.

 

* * *

 

The cabbie who had driven her to the hotel had tried to get the trunk out for her, but Felicity had stopped him. He was shocked when she lifted it effortlessly on her own, placing it onto a luggage cart before tipping him with a cheerful smile. She’d gotten used to people underestimating her on the island, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept in daily practice.

The trunk contains her only worldly possession: a simple recurve bow. She also has an assortment of arrows, arrowheads, and hooks, as well as some other choice weapons that she’d gathered over the years.

There is also a soft green hood, which is integral to her plans here.

She treats herself to the one luxury she’d dreamt of often on the island: a long bubble bath. She soaks away the soreness of her muscles, the weariness of her limbs, the exhaustion of her soul, but it does nothing to wash away the scars and bruises left from her old life. She sees them in the mirror, after the water’s turned cold and the bubbles are gone, and they stick out on her fair skin as painful reminders of her crucible.

She stares at her reflection humorlessly, seeing her own hollowness, the shell of her former self. Her hair is bleached from the island sun and salt water, long past her elbows and already curling as it dries. She is rougher now, with hardened edges made from scabs and scars, but polished clean by the harsh elements of the island. If she'd had anyone to come home to, they wouldn't recognize her.

She pulls on the plush white hotel robe and wraps it tight, feeling warm for the first time in ages.

But she feels lost in this room with central heating, with modern furnishing and carpet and a proper bed to sleep in. Fear grips her for a fleeting moment, clawing at her throat and threatening to overwhelm her, and she knows she needs to move, to plan, to work just to push it all away.

Felicity returns to her room and cuts open the packaging on the top-of-the-line laptop she’d bought on her way here from the hospital. She sets it up quickly -- old habits die hard -- and it only takes her twenty minutes to hack into the Queen Consolidated property holdings. In the five years she was away, the company had clearly failed to find a suitable replacement for her.

She grins when she sees the property in the Glades, an old and long-abandoned metal factory. She hacks into the city records to look at the floor plans and sees that it’s the perfect cover: it has a large basement that had been sealed off due to water damage six years ago.

One cab ride and a ten-block walk later, she stands in the middle of the foundry, pleased with herself.

That’s when the hard work begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to treble, who is a pusher, Cady, and to la_pacifidora, who thoughtfully wrote a version of this fic ages ago when I was going through a rough time, and was nice enough to encourage me to write my own version and continue it into an AU of the show.
> 
> The fic title comes from the Ben Howard song "Black Flies." The fic was partially inspired by [this picture](https://33.media.tumblr.com/8f107ac565637e9fa218f0040fecf73c/tumblr_ne2kp3bbJT1u1yybfo1_500.jpg). Sinceriously.


	2. no one can know my secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walter had asked how she feels about finally having a home again, but this doesn’t feel like home.

It takes her nearly a week to get her secret space set up with state-of-the-art technology, a proper workout suite, and enough security to rival the Pentagon.

In that time, she meets with Walter twice, at his insistence. The first time, she meets him for coffee at a small cafe near his office. The customers and staff seem to recognize her on sight, despite her considerable makeover thanks to a group of friendly ladies at the salon across the street from her hotel.

Walter doesn’t comment on her haircut as he hands her a piece of paper with Starling National Bank’s letterhead and an account number in her name. “Go to the bank, activate the account, get a card in your name, and the money is yours.” He says it with finality, like he won’t take no for an answer.

But Felicity had expected this. As soon as she’d been rescued by those fishermen, Felicity knew that the Queens would throw money at her like it was confetti.

“Is it hush money?” she asks quietly, aware that the patrons of the little cafe are watching her closely.

“No, of course not,” Walter replies, sipping his cappuccino with dignity. “It’s restitution.”

She thought she’d prepared herself for the dollar amount by the time she got to the bank, but she wasn’t anywhere close. She gaped at the number -- and the sheer amount of zeroes -- that appeared on her statement, but she’d already signed away her soul to the Queens. Might as well make use of it.

It’s not like her crusade is going to be cheap.

By the time she has dinner with Walter later in the week, Felicity’s moved into a loft in midtown. She wants to be seen flaunting her new money, to help with her cover, and an ostentatious loft in one of the recently-gentrified neighborhoods is a good way to start that. She’s surrounded by locally-owned shops and co-ops, and she finds that less people gawp at her in this part of town.

“I heard you found an apartment,” Walter says before she even breaks into the bread basket. “How do you like it?”

“The money, or the apartment?” she asks archly.

His face falls. “I meant… having a home again.”

“Oh.” She feels bad momentarily. She’d always liked Walter, and his name’s not on the list so she has no reason to distrust him, but she’s still holding him at arm’s length. She considers apologizing, and she has to remind herself that distance is her safest option. If she lets anyone get too close, her entire crusade could be compromised.

It’s her cross to bear. It’s the promise she made. “It’s nice,” she says noncommittally, popping some bread in her mouth.

They make small talk until the waiter takes their orders, and then Walter gets down to the reason he asked her to dinner.

“What do you think of coming back to work for the company?” he asks.

She’d expected this, too. Both because she knows they haven’t found a suitable replacement for her, and because she knew Walter’s guilty conscience would compel him to make the offer.

“As an IT girl?”

“As the Director of Applied Sciences.”

She scoffs. “I’ve been out of the game for five years, Walter. I don’t even know what a smart phone is.”

“And yet earlier this week, our server was hacked by an untraceable IP. Even our best men couldn’t trace what the hacker accessed or where the hacker was coming from.”

“People get hacked all the time.”

“We haven’t been hacked in five years.”

The words hang in the air between them. Felicity sits back and puts her hands up in surrender. “Okay. You got me. That doesn’t mean I’m qualified for the position.”

“Then let me ask you what you intend to do now, Felicity,” Walter says, templing his fingers in front of him. “The Queen’s money, while substantial, will not last the rest of your life. Do you intend to invest? Or are you interested in resuming your career?”

“Of course I want to get my career back…” she starts carefully. “But head of Applied Sciences… Everyone would know I didn’t earn that job.”

“Some would argue that being stranded for five years on official company work is enough to earn you whatever position you choose.”

She pretends to consider the offer for a while. In reality, she’s had this in motion since she got back to the city. She’d purposefully left traces of her hack on the QC servers, just to raise the alarm, and she’d expected Walter to come to her for her help. But he can’t possibly know what she’s been doing for the last five years, or know that for some of that time, she was closer to technology than he thinks.

Finally, she lets out a breath and says, “Thank you for your offer, Walter, but I’m afraid I can’t accept it.”

His tone is clipped as he replies, “I am disappointed to hear that.”

“I would, however, be happy to interview for the head of the IT department, if that position becomes available.”

A slow smile spreads across Walter’s face. “I’m sure we can make that happen.”

Which is good, because the heart of Queen Consolidated is exactly where she needs to be.

 

* * *

 

The foundry -- she refuses to think of it as her lair, or her cave -- is her dingy, cold reminder of her purpose in this city. At night, the chill creeps in through the cracks and crevices in the walls, serving as a flesh memory of the nights she spent in the twisted remains of a crashed airplane in a forest clearing. Grime and rust lurks on every surface outside her circle of light in the middle of the basement, like she’s created her own island in the slums of the city.

She adjusts to the creature comforts she missed while she was gone -- namely, an internet connection. She researches the names on the list in her free time, when she’s not moving up and down the salmon ladder or throwing punches at the wooden dummy she’s set up for sparring practice.

She starts her nighttime excursions slowly, learning the streets of the Glades and seeking out good perches and hiding places. She watches the criminal element -- the drug dealers, the roving bands of vandals, the punk kids looking for trouble -- and takes note of the blocks they tend to avoid. She stands on rooftops for hours, surveying her island, getting to know the battlefield.

Adam Hunt is her first target. She tracks him for five days, learns his patterns and movements, watches who he meets, and plans.

Her hood is her anonymity, and she emulates the color in her outfit: green leather, except for her boots.

She’s figured out a good way to sneak in and out of her loft without the doormen being any the wiser. She buys clothes and furniture, stocks her refrigerator with food and her bar with alcohol, purchases the most advanced smart phone she can find, and stashes four different tablets in strategic places around her apartment.

She purchases a motorcycle, which she stores at a garage across town under a different name, and she signs a contract with a chauffeuring company so that she can ride around in towncars like the rest of the city’s elite.

When everything is said and done, she should be broke, but she hasn’t even made a dent in her account. She stands in the middle of her airy loft, taking in the exposed brick walls, the black metal beams, and the minimalist furniture. She’d brought in a few house plants to help liven up the place, but it still feels cold and impersonal.

Walter had asked how she feels about finally having a home again, but this doesn’t feel like home.

She makes a point to be seen in public during the week. She eats at the bistro downstairs, orders coffee at the cafe around the corner, and spends an hour shopping at the locally-owned boutique for clothes that she thinks of as costumes. She goes to the library, primarily to people-watch and be seen, but also to shake off the rust of the last five years and practice hacking from a remote location. She swims at the community pool, going back and forth doing laps, and smiles at the children who run up and greet her like an old friend while their parents hang back warily.

On the island, she had missed the bustle of the city. She often felt lonely and isolated, like the world was spinning away beyond the shorelines and that she was stationary, never changing except for the darkening of her soul.

But the more she views of the world, the more she suspects that the shoreline was a lie. The rich are still rich, the poor are still struggling, and there is a stranglehold on the city that she'd only sensed, and never saw, before her exile. There are superficial changes, of course -- various pop icons have been replaced, foreign dictators have died, buildings have been demolished, and everyone's talking about something called "The Hunger Games" -- but the most unnerving part of Felicity's return to civilization is how much has remained unchanged.

The bustle and buzz of the city now makes her feel more isolated than she did on the island.

 

* * *

 

Another storm is threatening on a Thursday afternoon as Felicity hurries from the park to her apartment. She’s gripping her umbrella tightly, always poised and expecting an attack, and her hackles go up when she hears her name.

“Felicity Smoak?”

She turns to find a very pretty woman in a tailored pantsuit staring at her from about ten feet away. She has brown hair and hazel eyes and she looks a bit like a trapped animal as she stares hard at Felicity, who recognizes her immediately.

“Laurel Lance,” she says softly, barely loud enough for the other woman to hear, but Laurel flinches and looks even more doubtful than before.

“I -- I figured you would want to talk to me,” Felicity says, trying for a conversational tone despite the fact that her heart has just dropped like a stone. “About… stuff. But I didn’t know if I should contact you…?”

“No, no,” Laurel says, nodding her head in an almost relieved way. “I needed time. To wrap my head around it. You know. The fact that you’re… you’re back.”

She stares at Felicity for a long time. Felicity stares right back. She’d never met Laurel before the island, she’d never even heard of her. But she’s done her research since she’s returned, and Laurel’s made quite a name for herself in the intervening years. She’s a bit of a pitbull when it comes to legal aid, and she’s worked at CNRI for the last two years. She’s well known among the ninety-nine percent as a warrior for the everyman.

“You… you look a lot like her,” Felicity says hesitantly, slowly stepping closer to Laurel. “You know, except the hair.”

Laurel’s blinking back tears as Felicity approaches, but her eyes are determined as she squares her shoulders. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Felicity nods expectantly, her nerves jangling.

“Did she… suffer?” Laurel asks intently as more tears fill her eyes. “Sara? When she drowned?”

In a breath, a year of memories -- of friendship, betrayal, fear, hope, and a howling grief -- threaten to engulf Felicity. She’s nearly overwhelmed at the question, one she hadn’t expected, but she should have. She takes too long to answer, it feels like centuries, but Laurel’s still staring at her expectantly, hoping for the best case scenario, and Felicity doesn’t feel human enough to rob her of it.

“No,” she says quickly. “She… she didn’t suffer at all.”

She feels the lie across her skin like so many wounds, feels it tingling down her spine like dread, and she waits for Laurel to realize, to understand that it’s a fallacy, that Sara died a horrific death that should’ve been Felicity’s, and that Felicity has had to live with the guilt for years.

But Laurel smiles feebly, a chink in her armor, and for a moment she just breathes and takes in the news. “Good. Good. I’m… that’s good. Right?”

Felicity nods, swallowing hard. “Of course.”

“She was a live wire. She drove me crazy all the time. We’d just fought over -- over the dumbest thing,” Laurel says, tears spilling now. “And she was lashing out at me and my dad -- you probably know that. But I want you to know that Sara was a good person. She was just a little wild. I’m sure you have, just, the worst opinion of her --”

“No,” Felicity says impulsively, and immediately regrets the outburst as Laurel blinks in surprise. Hastily, she adds, “I don’t -- I never judged her, or anything. She was very nice to me. That’s all that mattered.”

Laurel nods once, smiling again, but her guard is up as she takes a step back. “Okay. Good. Thank you, Felicity. And I -- I won’t corner you like this again. I just… I had to know.”

“No problem,” Felicity says, feeling her facade cracking as Laurel finally turns away. She watches the other woman -- so accomplished but clearly haunted -- stride away from her, and waits until Laurel disappears around the corner before she goes into her building. She smiles at the new doorman, Diggle, putting on her best attempt at nonchalance even though she suspects the doorman witnessed the entire exchange. He only tips his head at her as she passes, and she congratulates herself for keeping it together through the entire elevator ride to the top floor.

But once she’s inside her apartment, Felicity slumps against her door and dissolves into tears, comforted only with the knowledge that _it’s what Sara would have wanted_.

 

* * *

 

Two days before she is due to start her job, Felicity is abducted by three men in grotesque masks as she strolls through the Glades.

She’d been distracted by the bad weather and trying to edge through the run-down streets undetected; she’d forgotten to keep an eye out for ambushes. One of the men jumped her when she rounded a corner, and the other two converged on her with a black hood and zip ties.

It spoke to the climate of the Glades that no one tried to help her.

She focused on her breathing for the short ride in the van, carefully going through her combat training and listening to the men’s voices. They sounded like goons, hitmen for hire, and if she played her cards right, she could use the situation to her advantage.

She is surprised by the interrogation, though.

“Did Robert Queen survive that accident?”

She glances around the abandoned building as they whip the hood off of her head. They’re all still wearing masks, which bodes well: It means they don’t intend to kill her.

“I asked you a question, Miss Smoak! I expect an answer!” The head masked man, armed with a stun gun, growls at her in a would-be menacing voice, but she recognizes false bravado when she hears it.

She fixes her eyes on the monstrous plastic mask and tightens her hands into little fists, straining against the zip tie. Her lack of an answer earns her a shock from the stun gun, and she cries out in pain.

“Did he make it to the island? Did he tell you anything?”

Felicity refuses to answer, and it earns her another shock. This one lasts longer, but they don’t know what she’s been through -- they don’t know that she’s withstood worse torture than this.

The masked man steps back and makes a noise of derision. It’s the space she needed, so through clenched teeth, she replies, “Yes. He did.”

All three men go silent. “What did he say?”

She lets out a long breath, steeling herself. “He told me I’m going to kill you.”

There’s a long pause, and then they break into chuckles. They actually chuckle. She should be insulted, but their ingrained misogyny will be her most useful weapon. She waits patiently, poised to strike as the masked man turns back to her.

“You’re delusional, young lady. You’re zip tied to that chair.”

And unable to resist a bit of theater, Felicity slowly brings her hands up to show that she’d busted out of her plastic cuffs. “Not anymore.”

They spring into action, but far too slowly. Their guns had been hanging off their shoulders, and they clumsily try to pull them up and aim as Felicity swings the chair toward the closest masked man, shattering it over his head. Palming one of the broken spindles, she twists and buries it in the chest of the second man as he looms over her. He falls away with a surprised grunt as the first man tries to grab her, but she jabs upward with the spindle, shoving it into his neck.

She turns just in time to use the man’s body as a shield from the gunfire from the third man; he gets spooked immediately and turns tail.

It just a matter of jumping across rooftops, scaling walls, and avoiding his wild shots as she pursues him across three blocks of the Glades. She corners him in another abandoned building just as his gun jams, and she takes advantage of his hesitation by swinging toward him on an old, rusted chain and kicking him off-balance. As he tries to recover, she puts him in a headlock, and he has just enough time to choke out, “You don’t have to do this!”

“Yes I do,” she replies tonelessly, her grip tightening. “No one can know my secret.”

And she breaks his neck effortlessly.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, she’s sipping red wine by her fireplace as she stares at a very skeptical Detective Quentin Lance, who is evaluating her as she wraps up her recount of the afternoon’s events.

“So, that’s your story,” he says doubtfully, his face twisted into a scowl as he glowers at his notepad. “A guy in a green hood swooped in and took out three armed kidnappers? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” Felicity replies with careful innocence. “Find him and ask him.”

“You’ve only been back a couple of weeks and already someone’s abducting you,” Lance continues. “You’re pretty popular.”

“They probably wanted some of the Queen’s money,” Felicity replies easily, ignoring the way Lance blanches at the name. “Everyone knows about their payout. It was probably a ransom situation.”

“Yeah, must be nice,” Lance says with an edge to his voice now, glancing around her apartment. “Pretty nice digs for someone who just got back from the dead.”

“I’m not sure I like your tone, Detective,” Walter speaks up immediately from beside her. He’d insisted on being present for her interrogation for her protection, and she’s glad for the extra ears as she spins her tale of a hooded male vigilante freeing the damsel in distress from the terrible masked men.

She holds her hand up to stop Walter as she smiles coldly at Detective Lance. “I’m not going to deny myself the first world benefits that I’ve lived without for so long, nor would I let the Queens off the hook for the situation I was in for the last five years.”

“Of course not,” Lance replies sarcastically.

The other man, Detective Hilton, shifts his weight uncomfortably behind Lance.

“If that’s all, detectives, I’m very tired. I’m sure you understand,” Felicity says with a pleasant smile. “If I remember anything else, I’ll be in contact.”

“Thank you, Miss Smoak,” Detective Hilton says quickly, before Lance can answer. He gestures for the other man to follow him, and Lance relents.

Felicity knows why he’s upset. While he probably didn’t blame Felicity directly for his daughter’s death, it can’t be easy to see her back here, alive and well, living off the money of the family that lured his daughter to her death. He’s probably wondering, in the darkest recesses of his mind, why she survived while his daughter didn’t. She can practically feel it radiating off of him in angry waves: _It should’ve been you_.

Once the two detectives are gone, she turns to Walter and thanks him for his support through this ordeal.

“I’m very sorry this happened to you so soon after your return,” Walter says gravely. “If you need a few more days to recover…”

“No, don’t be silly, I’ll be at Queen Consolidated bright and early on Monday morning,” Felicity says breezily. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Very well,” Walter responds with a hint of doubt.

She offers to walk him out, adding more reassurances that she’s going to be fine and that he shouldn’t worry. When they get to the lobby, Walter casts her one last concerned look as he says goodbye.

But she notices, as she watches him leave, an almost imperceptible head nod from the new doorman as Walter passes.

 

* * *

 

Her research on Adam Hunt continues immediately. He’d been investigated by the District Attorney for fraud, but he was cleared of all charges thanks to a lack of evidence. Felicity is sure he bribed and killed his way out of a conviction -- his blood trail is splashed across the headlines for the last six months.

But there’s only one reason she’s targeting Adam Hunt first: he’s Laurel’s current target, and Felicity has a debt to pay.

The night before her first day at QC, Felicity decides to pay him a little visit.

The hood is to honor those who have worn it before her. The leather pants and top, which she’d assembled herself, are for flexibility and protection. The boots are military grade. The grease paint and the voice changer are for preserving her anonymity.

She crouches between two parked cars in a parking garage, waiting for Hunt as he leaves his office building. He’s talking loudly about the pending charges and about “taking care” of Laurel Lance, and as he draws even with Felicity’s hiding place, she loosens a well-aimed arrow at the light above him, shattering it.

She makes short work of disabling Hunt’s bodyguards, and after only fifteen seconds, they’re all laying on the ground, knocked out or grievously injured.

Hunt’s cowering in his car, so Felicity shatters the window and leaps onto the car before dragging Hunt out by the back of his jacket, tossing him onto the ground. Aiming her arrow right between his eyes, she says, “You’re going to transfer $40 million into Starling City Bank account 1141 by 10 pm tomorrow.” It comes out in a menacing, deep-voiced growl thanks to the voice-changer.

“Or what?” Hunt challenges.

“Or I’ll take it, and you won’t like how.”

She leaps down from the car, ignoring Hunt’s frenzied threats as she walks away.


	3. you have failed this city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a knock on her glass door, and she looks up to find a very handsome man standing there, one hand still raised in a fist while the other clutches a piece of paper. His blue eyes stand out in the chrome and grey of her office, and she can see her assistant, Jessa, staring awestruck behind him.
> 
> “Hi,” he says with a big dimpled smile as he steps into the room. “I’m Oliver Queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, the Applied Sciences division is still being put together and the building is under construction, hence Walter referring to it as a future position and something for Felicity to aspire to.

Walter is waiting in her new corner office when she arrives at work the next morning. It’s all chrome, glass, and black leather, with two walls of windows, a large bank of computers, and an oversized desk. Her heels are deafening across the space, echoing off of every cold, hard surface in the room; it’s as cold and impersonal as her new apartment.

“Our heads of departments want for nothing,” Walter says unapologetically, spreading his arms wide to indicate the expansive office.

“It’s great,” Felicity says honestly. It’s perfect for her plans.

“I’ll take you to meet your team. They’re all very curious to meet you, I hope you’re ready for that.”

Her team consists of four people, none of whom were her coworkers when she was here five years ago. They all look curious and eager, and they all seem sharp enough, but after spending only an hour with them, Felicity can see that they lack refinement in their skills. That bodes well for her; it means her activities on the QC servers are more likely to go undetected.

She also has an assistant who sits at a desk outside of her office, supposedly there to fetch coffee or run errands to other departments, but _her_ assistant doesn’t engage in any of those things. Jessa is a senior at the local community college, but her interests seem to revolve around talking to her boyfriend and painting her fingernails. This bodes well for Felicity, too.

Walter calls a meeting with the department heads in the middle of the afternoon to introduce Felicity to the team. They all nod at her politely with varying degrees of curiosity, and she gives the expected speech about her department being at their beck and call should they break a thumb drive or lose internet connection.

She hangs back after the meeting and hands Walter a list. “These are the things I need to modernize my department,” she says. “Some of them are expensive, so I’m sure you’ll need board approval, but they’re all necessary for me to run my department efficiently.”

His eyes scan down the list, then he nods and says, “This should be manageable.” Then he looks up at her and adds, “Make no mistake, Felicity, the plan is for you to eventually run the Applied Sciences branch as soon as funding is in. Keep that in mind as you delegate and apply for training.”

She thanks him with a bright smile and leaves the office without committing to the plan.

The truth is, running an entire branch of the company is not in her wheelhouse, currently. A simple 8 to 5 job in the IT department, where she has the entirety of the QC network at her fingertips, is her ideal position for what she has planned. The longer she can put off Walter and set herself up in the heart of the company, the better.

 

* * *

 

Ten o’clock comes and goes without a change to account 1141.

Hunt has barricaded himself in his office, guarded by his own mercenaries-for-hire plus police protection, but Felicity bypasses all of it by overriding the electronic locks on his doors and crashing in through the window from a nearby rooftop.

It’s been ages since she’s done hand-to-hand combat, but she’s as good as ever, taking out all of his men as she ducks behind furniture and scales the walls to avoid bullets. She faces Hunt, who is cornered behind his desk.

“Adam Hunt,” she yells, “You have failed this city!”

The police are able to break through the barricaded door just as she’s getting ready to issue her threat, so she loosens her hacker arrow into the wall behind his desk and leaps through the window, narrowly avoiding bullet from Detective Lance himself.

She nods at the doorman of her building, Diggle, as she walks past him twenty minutes later. She’s dressed in workout clothes, toting a gym bag and a water bottle, and he nods back at her. He suspects nothing.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, she watches from her desk at Queen Consolidated as Adam Hunt’s corporate account is depleted. Simultaneously, all of the clients who had brought cases against him are receiving their shares of the $40 million. She breaks the connection as soon as the account is empty, and then she pulls a small leather book from her briefcase and opens it up. Grabbing a ballpoint pen, she draws a neat strike through Adam Hunt’s name.

Her jubilation is short-lived. There’s a knock on her glass door, and she looks up to find a very handsome man standing there, one hand still raised in a fist while the other clutches a piece of paper. His blue eyes stand out in the chrome and grey of her office, and she can see her assistant, Jessa, staring awestruck behind him.

“Hi,” he says with a big dimpled smile as he steps into the room. “I’m Oliver Queen.”

She knows. She knew who he was before the island, too. In fact, you’d have to live under a rock if you didn’t know who Oliver Queen was five years ago, when he was the tabloid darling of Starling City. Handsome and charming with a penchant for partying, Oliver had wanted for nothing as he hopped from nightclub to nightclub, his pattern only broken by the occasional arrests for public intoxication, driving under the influence, and vandalism.

She also knows that since his father’s death at sea, Oliver Queen appears to be a changed man. All of his press coverage for the last five years has consisted of his appearances at charity events, the opening of his new nightclub downtown, and a proposed (and ultimately unsuccessful) bid to gentrify the Glades. For the first year or so after his father’s death, reporters peppered him with questions about his sudden lack of partying and drinking, attributing it to losing his father. He refused to comment on any of it publicly, so instead, the press spent the last two or so years speculating about his romantic life.

He’s much taller in person. He still exudes the entitlement and confidence of a man who never wanted for anything, but he also seems very closed off as he continues to flash her a smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

“I know who you are, Mr. Queen,” she says in what she hopes is a businesslike tone. He’s wearing a suit and tie, and his identification card is clipped to his waist, so she assumes he’s here for business. “How can I help you?”

“Walter got the board to approve all of your purchase requests for the IT department,” Oliver says, striding across the room to stand in front of her desk. He looks even taller now, and she thinks he might be trying to intimidate her, so she leans back in her chair as he places the piece of paper on her desk.

“That was fast,” she remarks, taking the paper and noting the “approved” stamp at the top.

“That’s how fast things work in the business world.”

She glances back up at him; he’s still standing there, almost expectantly.

“Did you need something else, Mr. Queen?”

“Oliver,” he corrects her quickly. “Please. Call me Oliver.”

She frowns. “Okay. Oliver. Is there anything else?”

“I…” he hesitates, shoving his hands in his pockets uncomfortably. He’s good; Felicity recognizes the manipulation, the fake show of vulnerability. He meets her eyes again as he says, “I wanted to ask you something. About my dad.”

A swirl of protests bursts into her mind, fueled by his blatant manipulations -- _This isn’t the time or place, Mr. Queen_ or _I don’t owe you an explanation_ \-- but there’s something honest in his expression, something disarming enough that she feels her arguments die in her lungs.

She clears her throat and indicates for him to sit down in one of the chairs facing her desk. He obliges, still leaning toward her like a co-conspirator, and she leans back even further in her chair.

“Did he… um. Did he say anything? Before he died?”

Her heart nearly stops at his open expression. He’s earnest and doubtful and for a split second, she sees him as someone’s son, as Robert’s son, the son she’d sworn to protect at all costs. Her heart thumps in her throat as she scrambles for words, for an explanation, for an excuse.

“Mr… um, Oliver,” she says hesitantly, leaning forward to place her hands on her desk. “Didn’t you… get the report? From the detective I talked to at the hospital?”

“I know, you said my dad drowned with the Gambit,” he says quickly. “I was just wondering if, before it capsized…”

And a memory, a nightmare, floats through her mind as she stares at the man who so resembles his father: _“Tell my wife… my kids… Oliver and Thea… that I loved them…”_

“No,” she says firmly. “Everything happened so fast… I’m sorry.”

Oliver blinks, studying her face, then sits back and shrugs with a wry smile. “It was a long shot, I know. But my sister, Thea, she used to have nightmares right after it happened. I always told her that he was thinking about us, and that it brought him peace.”

Felicity swallows hard and resists breaking eye contact. She suddenly wants to reassure him that his father did think of them, that it was in their best interest that he’d taken his life, that she’s here now to fulfill that promise to him. She doesn’t know how to respond, not now that’s she’s committed herself to the lie. Instead, she sits there rather stupidly, completely lost for words as she stares at him.

“Anyway,” Oliver says, standing up once more. “I just wanted to introduce myself and also warn you that I break my tablet… a lot. I’m not very good at technology.”

“Well I’m here for anything you need. Technology related!” she adds hastily, only now realizing how flustered she is by the encounter.

He grins at her. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Miss Smoak.”

She resists burying her face in her hands after he leaves.

 

* * *

 

She has a few close calls as she leaves the foundry over the next three weeks. One night, a man sees her walking out of the abandoned building and catcalls to her. She returns the greeting with a one-fingered gesture of her own, but he merely laughs and continues walking. Another night, she’s forced to crouch in the alley and wait as a group of teenagers spraypaint profane language on the front of the building.

She needs to come up with a good cover for the foundry, sooner rather than later.

She also crosses two more names off the list in that time: Martin Sommers and James Holder. She runs into a bit of a snag with James Holder, though. Technically, she’s not the one who kills him.

There she is, standing beside his rooftop pool, her bow drawn and aimed right at his heart as she questions him about his company’s culpability in some faulty fire detectors in low-income housing, when Holder is shot center-mass by a sniper.

She fires a wild arrow in the direction of the nearby rooftop, but she’s forced to take cover after a bullet grazes her shoulder. She glances over and sees Holder floating in his pool, dead.

She scans the opposite rooftop carefully, but whoever it was had been a pro; he or she is already out of sight by the time Felicity stands up to get a good look.

She thinks the process of patching herself up will be easy, since it’s just a graze, but after she nearly faints at the foundry, she realizes the bullet was laced with some kind of poison. She scrambles to her trunk, digging out some herbs from the island, and chews them quickly, chasing them with some bottled water.

She wakes up the next morning, thankfully alive but already ten minutes late for work.

“Miss Smoak, you’re forty-five minutes late for your eight o’clock!” Jessa whispers miserably as soon as Felicity steps off the elevator. “He’s been waiting!”

“I’m sorry, Jessa, I had a crazy morning,” Felicity says, hurrying past her and into her office. She’s still shaking off the after-effects of the poison -- mostly the dizziness and the nausea -- as she comes face to face with Oliver Queen.

“Mr. Queen! I am so sorry to keep you waiting,” she blurts, mortified that she’s coming off as unprofessional. She expects him to be angry, or at least annoyed, at being kept waiting, especially since he’s used to people bending to his will, so she’s surprised when he stands up from the chair in front of her desk with a broad smile.

She hasn’t seen him since their first meeting; office gossip indicates that he’s not exactly the hardest-working executive at the company, and he clearly hasn’t had any tablet incidents in the intervening weeks. But he looks the same as before, all blue eyes and stubble and perfectly-tailored suits with waistcoats.

“No problem, I was just -- hey,” he says, his smile faltering. “Are you okay? You look… not good.”

“Thanks,” she says dryly, rounding her desk and dumping her purse and briefcase on it.

He lets out a bark of a laugh. “No, I just mean you look sick.”

“I might have… over-indulged last night,” she invents wildly, then grimaces at the mounting unprofessional reputation she’s building for herself. Who gets wasted on a Tuesday night?

“Really? Because it looks more like the flu,” he continues doggedly. “Should you go home? We can postpone.”

“No, it’s fine,” she says hastily, dropping into her chair and indicating for him to follow suit. “Just give me a second…” She digs in her briefcase for her folder, the one that holds the key to her cover, and produces it with a strained smile. Handing it across the desk to him, she says, “I have a proposal for you.”

He opens the folder quizzically, and she waits expectantly as his eyes scan down the page. Finally, he looks up and says, “This has nothing to do with the company.”

“No.”

His eyes narrow. “You want to open a nightclub?”

She nods. “I do.”

He shuts the folder and places it back on her desk. “You have more than enough money, and the bank would grant you a sizable line of credit after Walter leans on them. What do you need me for?”

“I want you to run it.”

He gives her another one of those smiles, the ones that are bright and friendly but somehow cold and distant at the same time. “I have my own nightclub.”

She slides the folder back to him. “Your last nightclub was an investment. You eventually bought out the owner. I’m talking about building one from the ground up -- your design, your theme, your name.”

“In the Glades.”

“You don’t like a challenge?”

The smile is gone now. He watches her closely, his eyes searching hers, and she stares back baldly until he breaks eye contact. Sighing deeply, he takes the folder and opens it once more. “What do you need me for?”

“You’re Oliver Queen,” she says matter-of-factly. “People stand in line for three hours to get into your club.”

He makes a noise of disbelief. “You want to lure my friends into the Glades to, what? Gentrify? Raise those people up from poverty, one belly shot at a time?”

“How did _your_ plan for gentrification work out, Mr. Queen?” Felicity replies archly. “It may not be a soup kitchen or Habitat for Humanity, but it’s a start. If we bring in the crowds, businesses will want to capitalize. I’m offering you another way to achieve your goal of revitalizing the Glades.”

“And here I thought you were just a techie.”

She crosses her arms and waits with a small smile playing at her lips. She’s got his attention, she can tell because he’s still holding the folder, but she suspects he’s not used to people handing him an entire business and seeing what he can do with it.

He studies the papers for a few long moments, rifling through the charts and stats, the projections and costs, until he finally closes it and levels her with a serious look. “Why a nightclub? Of all things?”

“I can’t think of a better way to get bored kids with cash to come into the Glades. Can you?” she asks sweetly, cocking her head slightly.

He smiles at her almost reluctantly, then stands up and extends his hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Miss Smoak.”

“Felicity,” she says quickly, standing up and taking his hand. It’s large, twice the size of hers, and warm as he gives her hand a firm shake. “We’re going to be business partners now, I think it’s appropriate.”

“Felicity,” he repeats, and she can’t place why, but the sound of her name in his voice is almost like a tonic to her nerves. That, more than anything else, makes her think she’s made the right choice.

 

* * *

 

When she gets to the foundry that evening, she runs tests on the gauze she’d used to patch herself the night before, and the results come back positive for curare, a rare and deadly poison that is the hallmark of one particular assassin.

He’s a sniper for hire, dangerous enough to have earned himself a codename from Interpol: Deadshot. No leads there, so she follows the money trail, and it leads her straight to the Bratva -- the Russian mob -- who has employed Deadshot in the past.

Finally. A bit of good luck.


	4. you really did lose your mind on that island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She notices Detective Lance standing near Walter, looking just as edgy as Felicity feels. She watches a waiter pass by and offer him a drink, which Lance declines, and then she sees it.
> 
> A red light refracting among the wine glasses.

Her trip to Starling City’s branch of the Bratva the next day is short, tense, and unfriendly, but she leaves with the promise that, should her credentials as a Bratva captain check out, they will hand over the info they have on the mysterious sniper.

(Yeah, she’s a Bratva captain, but that’s a whole different story.)

Meanwhile, another man named Carl Rasmussen is murdered in the same way as James Holder, and Felicity starts to feel a little antsy. Both of those names were on the list, but besides being rich and powerful, Holder and Rasmussen had another thing in common: they were both potential buyers for a company called Unidac Industries, a company that Walter Steele is also interested in acquiring.

While she waits for the information from the Bratva, she accepts Oliver Queen’s invitation to visit his nightclub. “It’ll be good, you’ll get a glimpse of how our future business will function,” he’d told her with unrestrained enthusiasm, his eyes crinkling with one of the first genuine smiles she’s ever seen from him. So on a whim, she decides to go. She arrives at the club fashionably late, dressed in a slinky green dress with her hair down in loose curls.

She’s already on edge because of the large crowd and the thumping music, but Oliver appears as if from nowhere and immediately, she feels calmer. He holds his arm out toward an area that is roped off from the rest of the crowd and gestures for her to walk in front of him. Behind the ropes is a group of people, two of whom she recognizes right away: Tommy Merlyn, son of another Starling City tycoon, and Thea Queen, sister of Oliver.

They both give her wary looks as Oliver slips her past the security guards and introduces her to the group. “This is Felicity Smoak. She’s my new business partner.”

Almost imperceptibly, she sees Tommy relax. He’s just as handsome in person as he was in his old tabloid pictures, as he’d often been an accomplice in Oliver’s crimes. Thea wears a distrustful expression as Oliver points and rattles off names of the other four people sitting there. They’re all the offspring of Starling’s most elite and powerful.

“Hi,” Felicity says, affecting an air of nervousness in an attempt to ingratiate herself. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

“Please sit down,” Oliver says, gesturing toward the empty spot on the velvet couch beside Tommy as he drags over a chair of his own. Thea rolls her eyes and downs a shot of clear liquor as Felicity sinks onto the couch and offers a tentative smile to Tommy.

“So it’s probably been, what, five years since you’ve been to a nightclub?” Tommy asks conversationally, leaning toward her to be heard over the music and the crowd.

“Even longer,” Felicity replies. “I wasn’t exactly a club person before the island.”

She watches his expression change as she mentions the island, like he hadn’t expected her to bring it up so easily in conversation. She’s relieved to see a mixture of genuine sympathy and curiosity in his expression. Ever since she’d been kidnapped in the Glades, she’s been on the lookout for anyone who reacts with something more incriminating, like guilt or anger, when she brings up the island. So far, no luck.

“That must’ve been awful for you,” Tommy says, his blue eyes full of pity. “The whole thing. I can’t even imagine.”

“It was no vacation,” Felicity agrees. “But it’s in the past. I’m working on moving forward.”

“By opening a nightclub with my best friend,” Tommy says, seizing on the change of subject like a pro. “I didn’t think anyone could be that crazy.”

“I see a lot of potential,” she replies, looking around the club carefully now. It’s all blues: deep blues of booths and chairs, electric blues of metal along the bars, neon blues of lights and strobes, and a DJ dressed in blue at the center of it all.

“Kind of strange that the first thing you want to do is open a nightclub,” Thea says unexpectedly, her tone hostile as she shoots Felicity a dark look. “Shouldn’t you open some kind of charity? For… survivors of freak capsizing accidents?”

Felicity goes numb as Oliver leans forward and growls, “Speedy!”

“What? I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking,” she says with the maddening superiority that comes with being a teenager. She sits back and giggles, tugging on the sleeve of the guy beside her, undoubtedly to whisper something rude.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Oliver says authoritatively. “I let you hang out here as long as you promise not to get out of hand, but lately, you’re pushing that limit.”

“Don’t be such a killjoy,” Thea says with disdain. “I’ve barely had any, and it’s not like I’m driving home.”

“I said _enough_ ,” Oliver reiterates. The group falls into an awkward silence as the siblings glare at each other. Finally, Thea stands up and grabs her clutch.

“You know, if I wanted a babysitter, I would’ve stayed home with Mom and Walter. I think I’ll go to Max Fuller’s club next time.” She gives Oliver one last withering look before she stalks away, followed by everyone else except for Tommy.

Oliver shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Felicity, who had felt frozen and quite out of her element for the first time since the island, glances at him and waits for some sort of cue, but it’s Tommy who speaks first. “I’ll go make sure she gets a cab. Alone,” he adds. “I gotta get home to Laurel anyway.”

He stands up and claps Oliver on the shoulder, in some kind of bro show of solidarity, then grins at Felicity and says, “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she says, giving him a small smile. She’s shaken by her encounter with Thea; she’s suddenly irritated that Oliver hadn’t warned her that his sister would be here, that he couldn’t have predicted her behavior. She takes two deep breaths and reminds herself that none of this is Oliver’s fault -- it’s hers, for not being more prepared. Something about this guy makes her too impulsive, she should’ve planned in case Thea or Laurel were here.

His eyes are still shut, his jaw is still clenched, and Felicity wonders if he regrets inviting her now. “So…” she says in an attempt to ease the tension. “Tommy and Laurel…?”

He opens his eyes and slowly turns to face her. “Yeah,” he says on a long exhale. “They’ve been together for almost three years. They have a place together uptown.”

“Oh,” Felicity says, nodding. “That’s… nice for them. I guess?”

He looks like he’s fighting a smile as he shakes his head. “You’re wondering if I’m okay with it. Yes, of course I am. They’re rock solid. She deserves a great guy like Tommy.”

They stare out at the merry clubgoers, all dancing as one to a deafening beat as the DJ directs them with waves of his arms.

“I met her, you know,” Felicity blurts out. “Laurel. In the street, in front of my building. She had questions for me.”

Oliver bows his head, still facing away from her. “She and her father had a lot of… anger. For a long time. I don’t think her dad ever got over it.”

She laughs. “Yeah, you don’t have to tell me. I met him, too, he was assigned to my kidnapping case.”

“Your what?” Oliver yelps, his head swiveling around in alarm. “You were kidnapped? When?”

“The weekend before I started work,” Felicity says, bemused. “I thought Walter would’ve told you -- he was there for the investigation.”

“You came here by yourself -- shouldn’t you have some kind of security? A bodyguard?” he asks insistently, his brow creased in a genuine show of concern. Even if she’s a little irritated that he thinks she needs protection, she’s also a little touched.

“It’s been over a month, and there have been no other attempts,” Felicity says reassuringly. “I was saved by that hooded guy, so I think any potential kidnappers are giving me a wide berth.”

“The hood guy? Isn’t he dangerous, too?” Oliver asks, some of his alarm fading now.

“Maybe. But he didn’t kill me that day, so I’m not too worried about it,” she replies with a shrug.

But Oliver doesn’t completely buy her story, she can tell just by looking at him, and she wonders if she needs to work on being more convincing. Why did it work on the police officers, but not on Oliver? Shaking her head, she decides to change the subject to deflect further suspicion. “It looks like Thea’s not a big fan of your new business venture.”

“She’s seventeen. She’s not really a fan of anything besides being unhappy right now,” Oliver says with a wry but affectionate smile. “She’s really pushing her boundaries lately.”

“Look, I know she’s your sister, but I can’t have her hanging out at our club while she’s underage,” Felicity says seriously. “It sets us up for all sorts of liabilities.”

“I know. It was one of those things where I thought if she did it where I could keep an eye on her… But it ends now,” he says resolutely. “I promise.”

She smiles. “Well in that case, Queen, I think we’re in business. Just… less blue in our club, please? Maybe some greens.”

He laughs. “Deal,” he says, shaking her hand, and she experiences that weird feeling of camaraderie that she hasn’t felt since… well, it’s been a long time. It’s so unnerving that she breaks the handshake too quickly, but he astutely pretends not to notice. “We should toast,” he says brightly. “What do you drink?”

“Red wine,” she replies. “Whatever the bartender recommends.”

As he disappears into the crowd, Felicity rubs her hand on her thigh, trying to rid herself of the sensation.

The rest of the night passes pleasantly enough, with Oliver keeping a respectable distance as they chat about club plans, permits, and timetables. She sips two glasses of wine as he sticks to water, until he finally admits that he’s been sober for two years. She drinks to that, “And to self control, because only a recovering alcoholic would think it’s a good idea to own two nightclubs!” and he laughs and clinks his water glass with hers.

She gets to her apartment just after one in the morning, sliding out of the towncar and thinking longingly of her bed. She climbs the four steps to the front door of her building and grins at Diggle as he opens the door for her.

“You must think I’m crazy, the hours I keep,” she teases him. She pretends to yawn as she watches his reaction from the corner of her eye, but he’s as stoic as ever.

“No, m’am. If you think your hours are crazy, I guarantee you mine are worse,” he says with a straight face as he stands aside.

“That’s probably true,” she agrees as her phone rings. “Good night, Digg.”

She answers the phone once she’s inside the lobby; it’s the Bratva captain, and her credentials checked out.

“His name is Floyd Lawton,” he says in Russian. “We have and address for where he stayed last time he was in Starling City, but that is all.”

“Let’s hope he’s a creature of habit,” Felicity murmurs back as she steps onto the elevator.

 

* * *

 

It turns out Floyd Lawton is a deadly assassin and a creature of habit.

Felicity hoods up and ambushes him in his motel room, but he proves evasive as he shoots from a mini-gun strapped to his wrist just before he crashes through the window. It’s all over in a matter of twenty seconds, but he leaves behind a bullet-ridden laptop that Felicity thinks she can salvage, so she lifts it as she makes her escape.

Back at the foundry, she hooks up the laptop to her bank of computers and manages to boot up the hard drive. She finds blueprints of the Exchange Building, where the auction for Unidac Industries is supposed to be held the next night. The laptop itself apparently belongs to Warren Patel, another potential buyer and the man who presumably hired Deadshot to take out the competition. He also happens to be on Felicity’s list.

At least she has a lead; now she just needs to figure out how to get into the auction. She studies the blueprints carefully, formulating her plan. She could ask Oliver if she can be his plus-one, since he will be there with his family to support Walter, but she’s worried he’ll take that as some sort of romantic gesture. Plus, she’s still not sure she’s at her sharpest when she’s around him. That means Walter is her key.

 

* * *

 

Walter is more than happy to extend an invitation to her. She claims she’s interested from a future Director of Applied Sciences standpoint, since Unidac promises to expand their scientific resources, and Walter gives her a pleased smile as he makes the necessary phone calls. “There’s added security for tonight,” he explains after three such phone calls. “Someone apparently called in an anonymous tip last night that the auction might be a target for more terrorism.”

“That’s terrible,” Felicity says with feigned concern. She, of course, was the “tipster,” though technically she’d cornered and overpowered Detective Lance in an alley the night before to warn him about Deadshot.

“Not to worry, Felicity, you will be protected by the city’s finest,” Walter says reassuringly as he dials another number.

She’s not too worried.

Diggle’s not there when she leaves her apartment that evening. She makes a note of that; it’s the first time he’s been absent since the day he’d been hired.

The gala is just starting when Felicity arrives. She sees Walter standing with his wife, Moira, toward the back of the room. Anxious to avoid the one person in the Queen family that she hasn’t wanted to face, Felicity makes a beeline for the bar and orders herself a red wine. She doesn’t intend to drink, but it’ll help her keep her cover if she’s seen with a drink.

She notes the detectives and beat cops patrolling the balconies upstairs, doing a poor job of trying to blend in as they murmur into their walkie-talkies. She turns away from the bar, drink in hand, just in time to see Detective Hilton detaining Warren Patel. Allowing herself a small smile, Felicity continues scanning the crowd for more faces that are on her list; quite a few of them are in attendance tonight.

She stays along the edges of the room, watching Starling’s rich and powerful mingle as if they haven’t a care in the world. When the auction is announced to begin in five minutes, she sees Moira peel away from Walter to go find her seat; Felicity is on her way to greet him when a voice stops her dead in her tracks.

“Felicity? What are you doing here?”

She turns slowly and gives Oliver an affected smile. “I don’t belong at multi-million dollar company auctions?”

He puffs out his cheeks in consternation, clearly looking for a polite way to say what’s on his mind before he finally settles on: “Not really.” When she rolls her eyes, he adds, “Just because you’re head of IT. That’s not exactly… a shareholder position.”

“And yet, I own shares in your company,” she says, feeling a little insulted now. Oliver blinks in surprise, and Felicity adds, “Didn’t Walter tell you?”

Clearly he did not, because Oliver looks a little lost for words. He stands there awkwardly, his hands shoved in his pockets as he practically towers over her. She keeps her shoulders squared and her chin up, enjoying this rare feeling of superiority in their previously-imbalanced dynamic.

Finally, Oliver deflates a little bit and says, “I’m sorry, that was very rude of me.”

“At least you’re honest.”

He laughs, that bark of a laugh that always seems to take him by surprise, like he didn’t expect her to be so blunt. “I would offer to escort you inside --”

“No, thank you,” she says quickly, in danger of being thrown off-kilter by him again. “I know your family is here and I… I don’t really know how to talk to your mom. So if it’s all the same to you…”

“Understood,” he says immediately, with too much empathy, which can only mean that her fears of facing Moira Queen are not unfounded. “I’ll see you in there.”

He gives her a weird little salute, then seems to immediately regret it as he walks away. She allows herself to laugh, more for his benefit than her own, and watches him until he disappears into the main ballroom.

Felicity walks the long way around the still-crowded atrium, her senses on high alert now that the auction is about to begin. If Deadshot was going to make his move, it would be now, where he can blast through the windows; the ballroom is windowless and steel-enforced, according to the blueprints they’d both studied.

She notices Detective Lance standing near Walter, looking just as edgy as Felicity feels. She watches a waiter pass by and offer him a drink, which Lance declines, and then she sees it.

A red light refracting among the wine glasses.

Lance spots it almost as quickly as she does, just before the dot lands squarely over Walter’s heart. “Get down!” Lance bellows, diving for Walter as the rest of the crowd reacts in panic and surprise.

Felicity sprints away from the windows as one of them shatters from a bullet that is no doubt laced with curare. A few women scream as most of the crowd moves as one toward the ballroom or back into the hallways leading to smaller conference rooms. Three more bullets zip into the room, and two bodies hit the ground immediately: a waiter, and another rich, potential buyer.

Felicity stays long enough to check that Walter is unharmed as Lance guides him to safety. Once they’re out of sight, she heads for the stairwell.

She changes into her hood and leathers in record time; she’d hidden them in a rucksack inside a trash can on the fourth level just in case. She sprints up to the roof and uses one of her grappling arrows to swing across the street and into the building where the shots are coming from; she’s greeted with gunfire almost instantly, and she ducks behind a concrete column for cover as Deadshot unleashes more bullets.

That’s when she realizes this floor is being renovated; the rafters are exposed and the electricity has been turned off. She leaps up onto one of the rafters and waits for Deadshot to step underneath her; when he does, she swings out and kicks him hard in the jaw, sending him reeling, but he’s back on his feet in no time, matching her punch for punch, kick for kick, until he sends her bow clattering away. She picks it up and takes cover behind another column, activating her voice changer and bellowing, “Drop your guns!”

“I admire your work!” Deadshot calls back, his tone full of scorn. “Guess you won’t be extending me any professional courtesy.”

“We’re not in the same line of work,” she snaps. “You’re in the business of murder.”

“You’ve taken lives!”

“For the good of others!” she argues even as her blood runs cold. All of Deadshot’s targets, except for Walter, were on her list. Softly, she adds, “You’re in it for yourself.”

There’s a pause where she can almost hear Deadshot scoffing, and then he unloads another round. She darts around the other side of the column, drawing her bow and aiming in his general direction as she releases. She jumps back behind the column as the gunfire abruptly ends, and she hears the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground.

Slowly, she inches around the column and sees Deadshot laying supine on the ground, a single arrow sticking out of his target eye. She walks toward him, intending to check that he’s really dead, but just as she draws even with his body, she hears a rattling breath coming from behind her.

Raising her bow and grabbing an arrow from her quiver, she spins around, poised to shoot, and only stops when she sees Diggle, her doorman, crouched down in the open doorway. He’s dressed in black tie and he’s clutching his left arm, grunting in pain. He’s been shot.

She lowers her bow in shock. She hesitates for a split second, torn between saving this man who has clearly been lying to her, or preserving her secret identity and letting him die.

She makes several snap decisions in the blink of an eye. If there’s one thing she learned on the island, it was to trust her instincts.

She sprints over and lowers herself under Diggle’s good arm, ignoring his grunts of surprise and dissent as she leads him away. It’s easy to get him back to the foundry, since everyone’s attention is still on the Exchange Building across the street, but Diggle starts to fade as they get into the Glades. She practically has to drag him down the stairs and onto the metal table in the middle of the room, and then she frantically smashes the necessary herbs into a powder before mixing it with water. Diggle tries to protest when she tips the bowl into his mouth, but he’s losing strength and gives in.

Then it’s just a matter of waiting as Diggle loses consciousness.

She has hours to ponder as she removes her grease paint and washes up. She casts long looks at the enormous man laying unconscious on her table. She doesn’t tend his wound; it’s just a graze, and it’s clotted itself while the herbs battle the curare in his body. She has theories about why he was on that rooftop, whether he was at the auction, and about his job as a doorman, but those will have to wait until he wakes up.

He’s out for hours; it’s almost daybreak when he starts to stir. He’s covered in sweat and his own blood, and he looks around the foundry in confusion as he sits up. Finally, his eyes land on Felicity; she’s still dressed in her leathers, her hood hanging loosely at the back of her neck.

“Hey,” she says gravely, watching Diggle’s expression as he tries to piece together what he’s seeing.

“Felicity?” he asks, struggling for breath as he stands up. He looks more closely at the things around them: the arrowheads, the computers, the salmon ladder. Then he drags his eyes back to her, scanning down her body as he takes in the leathers. “You’re that vigilante!”

She nods impassively.

He looks outraged as he tries to stagger away from her. “Easy, Digg,” she calls. “You were poisoned.”

He growls and sits back on the table, still clutching his arm as he gives her a deeply distrustful look.

“I could’ve taken you anywhere. I could’ve taken you home. I brought you here,” she says bracingly, trying to control his anger.

“You really did lose your mind on that island!” he says wildly.

Ouch. But it’s probably fair. “I found a couple of things along the way,” she offers with what she hopes is a disarming smile, but Diggle’s not buying it.

“Like what? Archery lessons?”

Yes. “Clarity,” she says calmly. “Starling City is dying. It’s being poisoned by a criminal elite who don’t care who they hurt as long as they maintain their wealth and power.”

“What are you gonna do?” Diggle sneers. “Take them all out by your lonesome?”

“No,” Felicity says, taking a deep breath, because her whole plan, everything, even Diggle’s life, hinges on this moment. “I want you to join me.”

Diggle rolls his eyes like this was all the evidence he needs to confirm that she’s insane.

“I knew you weren’t a doorman,” she continues evenly. “I could tell from the moment I met you. Did Walter hire you?”

“He thought you needed protection,” Diggle says, contemptuous. “Clearly he doesn’t know you at all.”

“What are your credentials? Ex-Army? Special forces, probably?”

He can’t resist adding, with a touch of pride, “Out of Kandahar.”

“It’s perfect,” she replies. “You’re a fellow soldier.”

“Felicity, you’re not a soldier,” Diggle says angrily, looking deeply disappointed as he stands up once more. “You’re a criminal. And a murderer.”

He gives her one last reproachful look before he limps toward the exit.


	5. you're fighting a war, smoak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the island, she wasn’t taught about war and fighting for a cause, she was only taught survival. From her very first day, from the very first person she met until the last, all she did was survive. And here is Diggle, holding out his hand, offering her a chance to keep her promise and maybe live to tell the tale.

Felicity gives Diggle a few days to cool off. It’s easy to do, because she ends up having an unexpectedly busy week.

First thing Monday morning, Felicity gets to her desk at QC to find one of her newly-installed programs flashing with a red warning. It has flagged potential fraudulent activity in the future Applied Sciences account: a $2.6 million withdrawal from one of the Vancouver subsidiaries. She takes it to Walter at lunchtime, and his stoic British demeanor does nothing to hide his concern. Even in a company worth multiple billions of dollars, $2.6 million is nothing to sneeze at.

Meanwhile, Laurel’s working on a case for a death row inmate named Peter Declan, who insists he did not kill his wife in cold blood. Felicity is predisposed to believe him, mostly because his dead wife’s employer was Jason Brodeur, who happens to be on the list.

So between her day job and covert rooftop meetings with Laurel to exchange files and information, Felicity doesn’t have much time to spare for Diggle’s state of mind. The fact that she hadn’t been greeted by Detective Lance and a squadron of police cars the morning after Diggle’s near-death is enough to assure Felicity that Diggle poses no immediate threat to her cover; now she just needs to give him time to get his head right.

On Thursday afternoon, right at the end of the workday, Walter calls Felicity to his office. “The variance of $2.6 million on a failed investment from three years ago was authorized by my wife,” Walter says, handing her a folder. “I was hoping you could find out some of the details of the transaction for me.”

She lowers her chin to look over her glasses at him, unsure if she heard him correctly. “Find out?”

“Dig up,” Walter clarifies. “Discreetly.”

She shuts the folder with a satisfied smile. Finally, an official reason to probe through the various financial accounts belonging to this company and its subsidiaries. “I’m your girl,” she says confidently as she turns to leave. Then she stops and adds, “I mean, I’m not your _girl_ , I wasn’t making a pass at you.”

And Walter smiles tightly at her, his eyes still distracted by the possible dishonesty of his wife.

Felicity spends most of the next day researching Moira Queen’s failed investment. She makes good headway by lunchtime, at which point she decides to take a break and head to the Glades.

She’d done extensive research and tracking on Digg after he’d left the foundry that night. She learned about his brother, about his three tours in Afghanistan, and about his daily routine. She knew he’d be spending lunch at a restaurant called Big Belly Burger, where his sister-in-law, Carly, is a waitress.

Sure enough, Diggle is sitting in a booth with his back to the door when Felicity walks in. Carly is standing at the end, chatting with him, when her eyes fix on Felicity suspiciously. Steeling herself, Felicity walks over and flashes Carly a dazzling smile. “Hello, Diggle’s sister-in-law, Carly. I’m Felicity Smoak.” She extends her hand, and Carly takes it with a cold smile.

“I know who you are.”

“No, you really don’t,” Diggle grumbles. Carly gives Felicity one last hard look before going to check on her other tables.

Felicity turns and slides into the booth opposite Diggle. His arm is in a sling and he appears to be drowning his feelings in a basket of French fries. “She doesn’t like me very much,” Felicity remarks conversationally, aware that she’s attracted the attention of the other patrons just by her presence.

“I haven’t told her about your nighttime excursions, if that’s what you’re implying,” Diggle says shortly. “No need to put an arrow through her heart.”

“Diggle.”

He looks at her grudgingly, then sighs. “She doesn’t like me working personal security for rich trust fund kids,” he explains in a low voice. “She knew I was working security for you when this happened.” He indicates his injured arm with his good hand as he continues, “I guess you’ve done your research on me. You know about Carly and A.J.”

“And about your brother.”

Diggle’s expression turns ugly again, so Felicity changes the subject.

“I couldn’t help but notice a distinct lack of police cars when I got home,” she mutters. “Have you considered my offer?”

“Offer?” Diggle repeats incredulously. “That’s one hell of a way to put it.”

He’s not as angry today; Felicity takes this as a good sign as she replies, “It is an offer. It’s a chance to do the kind of good that compelled you to join the military.”

Diggle shakes his head. “You’re an IT person. You were deeply entrenched in the city’s biggest corporation. You spent five years on an island, and suddenly, you found religion?”

Felicity opens her purse and pulls out the list; it’s a small, brown leather-bound book with countless names written in Robert Queen’s hand. She places it in front of Diggle, who uses his good hand to flip through it perfunctorily before asking, “What is this?”

“It was Robert Queen’s. I found it when I buried him.”

Diggle’s bemused expression turns more serious. “I thought you said Queen died when the boat went down.”

“We both made it to a life raft, but there wasn’t enough food and water for both of us, so he shot himself in the head,” Felicity says brazenly, watching Diggle’s horror-struck expression as he sits back. “As much as he was doing it to give me a chance to survive, I believe that he was also atoning for his sins. I made him a promise, and I intend to keep it. And I’m offering you the chance to right the wrongs done to your family.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The police never caught your brother’s shooter.”

“Hey,” Diggle growls, leaning forward and jabbing his finger at her. “You leave Andy out of this!”

“The bullets were laced with curare, that’s Floyd Lawton’s M.O,” she continues relentlessly. “He is the sniper that I stopped.”

Diggle blinks. “Are you trying to tell me that you took down Andy’s killer?”

“I’m giving you the chance to help other people’s families. Do you remember when the people of this city helped each other?” she asks softly. “They can’t do that anymore, because a group of people -- people like Robert Queen -- they see nothing wrong with raising themselves up by stepping on other people’s throats. It needs to stop, and if it’s not going to be the courts, and it’s not going to be the cops, it’s going to be me.”

She slides to the end of the booth and Diggle watches her, looking more than a little affected by her pitch. “And I hope you,” she adds as she stands up. “Good bye, Diggle.”

 

* * *

 

It takes her only a couple more hours to complete her searches on Moira Queen’s failed investment. Shortly before the end of the workday, Felicity takes an elevator ride up to Walter’s office with her findings.

“The company Mrs. Queen…” she pauses, realizing her potential gaffe. “Or, Steele? … Mrs. Queen-Steele? Does she hyphenate? She seems like a woman who would hyphenate.”

Walter looks uncharacteristically grim he stares up at her expectantly, not offering an answer.

“Right. The company she invested in doesn’t exist.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There was no investment,” Felicity clarifies, unable to resist showing off her skills just a little bit. “The money was used to set up an offshore LLC called ‘Tempest.’”

“I don’t recall that name being under the Queen Consolidated banner…” Walter says slowly.

“Because it’s not. There’s nothing registered with the Secretary of State, no federal tax records, no patent applications filed. But, in 2009, Tempest purchased a warehouse. Here, in Starling City.”

She hands him the folder, which feels more like a ticking timebomb now. She’s curious about this warehouse herself, and about the nefarious deeds Moira Queen has been up to, but she leaves it up to Walter to handle it from here. Judging by his determined expression as she leaves his office that night, he’s not going to let her down.

She hoods up and tracks him that night. She’s pleased to see him detour on his way home, stopping at the warehouse and standing at the locked door until he figures out the code and goes inside.

She doesn’t have time to stick around, however, because she’s due at the railroad tracks for a rather unorthodox interrogation of one Matt Istook, the key to Peter Declan’s case against Jason Brodeur. After Istook admits to perjury and directs her to the incriminating file, Felicity delivers said file to Laurel, who is working overtime at CNRI. She intends for it to be a short visit, but Laurel feels like chatting.

“As an attorney, I never would’ve gotten a file like this,” Laurel says in an awestruck voice. Felicity had cut the power to the building, and now she’s standing too far away to see Laurel’s expression. “I always thought the law was sacred, that it fixed everything.”

“And now what do you think?”

“I think there’s too many people in this city who only care about themselves. People who are selfish. I think they need someone who cares about the lives of other people. Someone like you.”

She glances back down at the file, and Felicity uses the opportunity to slip away soundlessly, but she’s heartened by Laurel’s opinion of her. Maybe she really is making a difference.

It doesn’t feel that way the next day, however, when Jason Brodeur has Matt Istook killed, rendering his testimony and the file useless. Thanks to an unlucky series of events, Felicity ends up at Iron Heights prison, saving both Laurel and Peter Declan from the assassins who were sent to kill them.

She kills three men effortlessly, and that’s when she sees fear and doubt in Laurel’s eyes. Peter Declan is a free man, cleared of all charges, while Brodeur is arrested for a multitude of crimes, but Felicity stands alone in her apartment the next morning, feeling hollow as she stares out at the city she loves.

There’s a knock at her door, and she opens it to find Diggle standing there, dressed in street clothes and wearing a determined expression.

“You here for the doorman position?” she asks with a small smile. “Because the new guy just quit.” Poor Rob never stood a chance.

“No, I’m not,” Diggle says resolutely. “I’m here for the other job.”

Felicity lets him in, offering him some coffee which he declines. “Just to be clear,” he says as she shuts the door, “I’m not signing on to be your sidekick.”

“Of course not,” she replies seriously.

“You’re right. Fighting for this city needs to be done, and you’re gonna do this with or without me. But with me, there will be fewer casualties. Including you.”

She shifts her weight and shakes her head. “Diggle, I’m not looking for anybody to save me.”

He shrugs. “Maybe not. But you need someone just the same.”

She gives him a politely dubious look, which he notices.

“You’re fighting a war, Smoak. Except you have no idea what war does to you. How it scrapes off little pieces of your soul. And you need someone to remind you who you are, not this thing you’re becoming.”

She considers this as she shakes Diggle’s hand. On the island, she wasn’t taught about war and fighting for a cause, she was only taught survival. From her very first day, from the very first person she met until the last, all she did was survive. And here is Diggle, holding out his hand, offering her a chance to keep her promise and maybe live to tell the tale.

He thinks she should be worried about what she’ll become one day. He hasn’t considered that she might already be that thing. Soldiers go to war and fight to come home, but that’s not how Felicity learned how to fight. She never had a home to come back to.

 

* * *

 

She finds out on the Monday morning news that Oliver Queen has been arrested under suspicion of being the hooded vigilante. She almost snorts into her coffee at the very idea of that big ol’ softie hooding up and running around killing people. She can’t think of anyone _less_ likely to be a vigilante, except perhaps for Walter Steele.

Still, he’s Robert’s son, and it wouldn’t do to have him under scrutiny for crimes she’s committing in Robert’s name. She’s onto the next name on her list, anyway, so making an appearance on the other side of town while Oliver is in custody would be the perfect way to clear him of any suspicion.

Diggle has officially signed on to be her personal bodyguard (Walter is very happy to hear this) which gives him a credible cover for being around Felicity all the time. She and Diggle collude on their first vigilante mission in her Queen Consolidated office, with the sunlight streaming in and refracting off of every single shiny surface in the room. How she hates the Queen Consolidated company aesthetic — she’d kill for some wood tones right about now.

“Why do you want to clear the Queen kid? Isn’t it easier for you if someone else is suspected of being the vigilante?” Diggle asks, making himself comfortable on the couch by the window.

“Maybe if the police had arrested someone else, but I promised Robert Queen that I would protect his family,” Felicity replies firmly. “That means his kids, his wife, and now Walter. They’re off-limits.”

“You’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself for people who are practically strangers — people who have likely contributed to the very problem your crusade is trying to fix.”

“Maybe, but I won’t yield on this point, Digg,” Felicity says firmly. “As long as I’m alive, the Queen family is under my protection. Besides, Oliver and I are going to be business partners. I can’t have him under a cloud of suspicion while we’re trying to open a nightclub.”

“A nightclub.” Diggle’s derision is clear in his voice.

“I need a credible cover for the foundry,” she says unapologetically. “And I needed someone malleable, someone with clout, to help me. I weighed all my options, and a nightclub seemed like the easiest way to lure Queen to my cause.”

“Rich kids aren’t as malleable as you think,” Diggle says warningly. “I’ve worked security for my fair share of them. If he ends up being the downfall to this whole thing—”

“He won’t,” she says shortly. “You have my word. Anyway, that’s the objective, to clear Oliver of any wrongdoing and throw the suspicion on someone else.”

“And how do you want to do that?”

She pulls out her tablet and brings up a series of articles about Leo Mueller, a German arms dealer who appears to operate out of the Glades. “The simplest way is to cross another name off of the list. I need you to track Mueller’s movements, find out where he operates, so that I can take him out. Time is of the essence.”

“And how am I supposed to track him?”

She grins. “I think it’s time you took a good look around the foundry, Digg.”

 

* * *

 

It takes him a day, but Diggle manages to track Mueller to the warehouse district of the Glades.

According to the police scanner, Oliver is now under house arrest, having been deemed a “flight risk” by the district attorney. There are extra officers working off-duty at his mansion, probably thanks in large part to Detective Lance’s hatred for the family and Oliver himself, but the extra protection is helpful; the more people who have eyes on Oliver tonight, the better.

Felicity hoods up and heads to the exchange site, where she simply makes an appearance, shoots a couple of arrows, and lets the men scatter. “Clear,” she says to Diggle over the walkie.

“Felicity, there’s been an incident at the Queen house,” Diggle replies. “Some sort of attack. It just came out over the scanners.”

“What kind of attack?” she growls, already sprinting to her motorcycle.

“They haven’t said, they just put out the code. You can’t go over there —”

“Like hell I can’t!”

“If the vigilante is spotted anywhere on the property, that will only make them suspect Oliver even more!” Diggle practically yells over the walkie as Felicity mounts her motorcycle. “Just come back to the foundry and wait for further news!”

But Felicity feels shaken. Just this morning, Walter had announced the tragic death of the QC Head of Security, Josiah Hudson, in a car accident the previous night. That plus this attempted attack on one of the Queens has Felicity wondering if some other forces are at play — if the members of the List are realizing they’re being targeted. She hesitates for a moment, her bike idling beneath her as she tries to decide whether to risk being seen on the Queen property. Then Diggle’s voice comes back over the walkie: “The attacker has been taken down. They’re clearing the rest of the house now. No other casualties reported.”

She breathes out a sigh of relief and heads back to the foundry.

“Reports of a masked vigilante in the Glades are all over the scanner,” Diggle reports as Felicity descends the metal stairs. “Lance just came over the radio saying he’s officially released Oliver Queen from house arrest.”

“Mission accomplished,” Felicity says gravely.

“It would appear so,” Diggle replies shrewdly, turning in his chair. “Felicity, you can’t have this sort of blind spot when it comes to the Queens. You’re making a lot of enemies now. If you show your hand one too many times, go running to the Queen house as soon as there’s a possibility of danger, someone’s gonna figure out enough to exploit them.”

“I know,” she says angrily, slamming her bow down on the metal table. “I just had a moment of doubt, okay? I think they were attacked because Oliver was suspected of being the vigilante. I felt a responsibility—”

“You can’t protect every innocent in this city and take down all the bad guys,” Diggle says gently. “It doesn’t work like that.”

The computer behind him beeps suddenly, blinking red as a dot starts to move across a city map. Diggle turns and studies it, then announces, “Mueller is on the move again.”

“Talk me in,” she says, grabbing her bow.

“Felicity —”

“He had his chance.”

Half an hour later, Mueller’s name is crossed off the list.


	6. there's more than one way to save this city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You say that going after the guys on that list is how you honor Robert Queen? Well if he could’ve seen you this week — the way you cared about the people he hurt, the way you stepped up to try to help them — I’d say he’d be pretty damn honored.”

The weather turns cold and wet over the next few weeks, with rain coming down in frozen sheets all over the city. It’s a forceful reminder of the island, of freezing nights spent shivering in caves or under trees, of trying to escape the cold before it seeped into her body and froze her heart. She thinks this is why she’s having more nightmares now: twisted images of Yao Fei in a military uniform, of Shado’s hands bound and bloody behind her back, of Slade with half of his face burned to the bone. Felicity wakes up in cold sweats most nights, her stomach heaving as she takes in her surroundings, her soft king bed with feather down comforter, her fluffy pillows, her white noise machine. She can never get back to sleep unless she moves to the floor by the window, which she opens just a crack to let the cold air flow in. As she dozes off again, her skin erupting in comforting goosebumps, she wonders if the island has made her a monster.

She spends her free time crossing more names off the list as she trains with Diggle in the foundry. He’s impressed with her physical prowess, and she’s impressed with his pure strength. After only a few days of training on each other’s regimens (Felicity doing Diggle’s strength training, Diggle doing Felicity’s body-resistance exercises) each of them feels stronger than ever before. They do hand-to-hand combat, where he teaches her how to get out of holds and she teaches him how to fight with sticks, and they both throw punches with such power that Diggle ends up with a brilliant purple bruise on his jaw. He doesn’t even get angry, he simply laughs off Felicity’s profuse apologies as he holds a pack of ice to his face.

But working with Diggle as her partner is not without its challenges. On a particularly chilly November night, right as she’s in the midst of her List, he brings up a series of bank robberies, one of which resulted in the shooting of an off-duty cop. “He’s in a coma,” Diggle says with barely-concealed contempt. “Doctors say it’s a coin-toss whether he’ll make it.”

“If he’s SCPD, the police will take care of it,” Felicity says offhandedly.

“They don’t have the resources you have,” Diggle insists. “This group is probably planning their next job right now.”

“I think you have the wrong impression about what it is that I do,” she replies curtly. “I don’t fight street crime. That’s a symptom of the bigger problem, which I’m trying to fix.” She holds up the List, but Diggle shakes his head derisively.

“Maybe you can fix the problem by going beyond the scope of those pages,” he argues. “I’m sure Robert Queen wouldn’t mind.”

“You don’t get it,” Felicity says stubbornly. “He died so I could right his wrongs. Every name I cross off this list honors that sacrifice.”

Digg is staring at her with growing indignity. “There’s more than one way to save this city!”

“Not for me!” she snaps, and Diggle recoils angrily. “Crime happens every day in this city. What do you want me to do? Stop all of it?”

She regrets her sarcasm immediately, but she refuses to take it back. She is only one person — she can’t take on everyone’s crusade, no matter how noble the cause. Diggle shakes his head incredulously as he pulls on his coat, heading for the door. “It sounds like you have a narrow definition of being a hero.”

She glares after him. “I’m _not_ a hero.”

And she thinks that’s the end of the argument, but she underestimated Diggle’s determination to make her see his side. She gets a phone call the next day as she’s sorting through Jessa’s illegible memos: “You know Scott Morgan, the next name on your list? He tried to kill himself this morning,” Diggle says without preamble. “I’m at Starling General. You should get down here.”

So Felicity takes an early lunch and meets Diggle outside the hospital, only to find him standing with a very worried but thankful woman. It turns out she’s the wife of the off-duty officer who was injured, and that Diggle had arranged, through Felicity’s name, to have him moved here for the best care possible. Felicity bears the gratitude from the officer’s wife as Diggle smirks, satisfied with himself. Once she’s gone, Felicity rounds on Diggle and says, “You lied to me!”

“And you asked me to work _with_ you, not _for_ you. And when you did, you said it was because you understand the kind of man I am. Well Felicity, I’m the kind of man who doesn’t walk away when there’s a chance to make a difference.” He crosses his arms, clearly readying himself for battle, and not for the first time, Felicity questions her own wisdom in taking him on as a team member.

But as infuriating as he can be, Diggle has a point. It can’t cost her too much to make the occasional detour from her list, especially for a man who was hurt in the line of duty. She sighs and steps around him, heading back for her motorcycle.

“Felicity, where are you going?”

“To make a difference,” she calls back. “Let’s go catch some bank robbers.”

 

* * *

 

It ends up being quite the excursion, including a break-in to the police station’s evidence lockup, intensive image searching, and a failed attempt to apprehend the family behind the robberies. It sends Felicity on a deeper search of their backgrounds, which is how she finds out that the father, Derek Restin, had been a foreman at the foundry before it was shut down — the foundry owned by Robert Queen, the same foundry where Felicity has set up camp. Queen had even found a loophole to avoid paying severance packages to the 1500 employees that had been laid off, leaving the Restins, and many others, in a dire financial situation. Presumably, this had ushered them into their life of crime.

That’s when Felicity comes up with a plan that Diggle absolutely hates.

She’s never ventured to the other side of the top floor of the Queen Consolidated building. Every time she steps off the elevator up there, she makes a beeline for Walter’s office and she’s never lingered after her short meetings. But on the opposite side of the floor are two other offices: one for the COO of the company, and one for the assistant to the CEO.

She taps on the closed glass door of the swanky corner office and watches as Oliver Queen swivels around in his chair. He brightens instantly when he sees her and gestures for her to come in as he stands up. “Felicity!” he greets her exuberantly as she pushes the door open. “Come in, please. I was just going to call you about Verdant." 

“About what?” she asks, immediately distracted from her mission as she sits on the couch opposite him.

“Verdant. Our nightclub.”

“Oh!” she says, nodding vigorously, then repeats, “Verdant?”

“You said you wanted green.”

He says it with such a genuine and unassuming smile that she’s taken aback. She actually can’t find words, for the first time in her life. She just sits there gaping at him for what feels like hours as he watches her expectantly. “I’m — sorry,” she stammers, trying to collect herself. “I didn’t… I can’t believe you remember me saying that.”

Oliver looks politely confused. “You really only asked me for two things, Felicity: that we don’t admit underage kids, and that I use green in the club. It’s not that much to remember."

He’s right. He’s completely right. So why is she so flustered by this? She clears her throat and sits up straighter, attempting to regain some semblance of authority.

He seems taken aback by her momentary shock, so he's a little hesitant as he continues, "Anyway, I had lots of time during my incarceration to finalize some numbers, and I was just about to call you.”

"Right... your incarceration," she repeats uneasily. Until this moment, she'd forgotten about Oliver's arrest and near-death experience. "What was that all about? The police actually thought you were that vigilante?" 

"They call him 'the hood guy,'" Oliver says with a wry smile. "And Lance just takes any opportunity to humiliate my family. It's sort of his thing."

"He really thought you'd assassinate your own stepfather?"

"I never said it made sense." His tone is a little defensive here, but his face is practically an open book; Felicity senses no deception in his explanation, just confusion and polite patience from the son of a man who has been dealing with the fallout of his father's actions for five years now.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply anything..." she says hesitantly, but he's already grinning at her again. "I just can't believe he'd hold that sort of grudge against your family with so little evidence."

"Well, he _did_ lose a daughter," Oliver says gingerly. "I'm sure it made sense in his head, you know... Like father, like son. And I am a man with the means and free time to run around picking off the people who helped my dad wreck this city." 

"Well, speaking of your dad..." she starts, seizing on the segue. "I have a favor to ask you."

“A favor?”

“I came across a case while I was cleaning up some archives,” she says. It’s all a total fabrication, and she’s depending on Oliver’s technological challenges to assist her in this process. “A man who had been laid off by your father and denied severance.”

Oliver grimaces. “I remember that. The steel factory, right? Over a thousand people lost their severances thanks to my dad.” He says it with uncharacteristic bitterness, especially considering the last conversation he and Felicity had about his father. For the second time in two minutes, Felicity is thrown off-guard by Oliver. She wonders if she should’ve listened to Diggle and not gone through with this plan, but it’s too late now.

“Well, a lot of those people went on to find work. This man, Derek Restin… he didn’t,” Felicity says gently. “He and his family were evicted from their house. It appears he’s since turned to… unsavory means… of making money.”

“What kind of unsavory means? Crime?”

“He has no listed employers since he was laid off seven years ago, but he keeps making large deposits into his account. His kids were forced to pull out of high school to live in temporary housing all over the coast. By all appearances, it looks like he’s deeply involved in crime.”

“So why bring it to me, after seven years?” Oliver asks.

“Because Restin is in town. I put a monitor on his credit card activity and he’s been in the city for a few days.”

Oliver tips his head back, narrowing his eyes at her shrewdly. “You’re monitoring his credit? You hacked his bank account? This sounds like a lot more than some old dusty case you found on an outdated server.”

Damn. He’s sharper than she’d anticipated. She’ll have to keep that in mind going forward, but for now, she flashes him a blank smile and says, “I got curious.” She leans forward, employing that same sense of conspiracy he’s used on her in the past. “And I thought, given what I’d uncovered, that maybe you could give him a chance to get out of this life he’s made for himself.”

“How?”

“Offer him a job. And maybe an apology,” she adds. “Though it probably won’t mean much to him.”

“It sounds like charity,” he says doubtfully. “Someone who makes his money the easy way, would he be interested in work after all these years?”

“Maybe not. But don’t you think, as Robert Queen’s son, you owe him at least the apology?” she asks softly. “That you owe him the choice to put his life back on track?”

He stares at her for a long time, so long that she wonders if he’s angry. Is it pride making him hesitate? Is it greed? Total dispassion? But he leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees as he looks right into her eyes. “How well did you know my father, Felicity?”

He asks it like he knows the truth, but that’s not possible. She blinks and answers, “Not very well.”

He searches her eyes, and she tries her hardest to look sincere until he breaks eye contact. “I don’t know if he would do anything differently if he were here today,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

_He would_ , she wants to tell him, but she only smiles and says, “He’s not here, though. You are. And your stepfather has been out of town on mysterious business, so I brought this to you.”

She stands up and drops the folder with all of Restin’s information on the table between them. “There’s everything I could dig up. It’s your choice, Oliver.”

She makes it all the way to the door before he speaks again.

“I’ll let you know how it goes.”

 

* * *

 

Restin doesn’t take Oliver’s offer.

(“It went very poorly, actually. He said he still has his pride and he won’t accept charity from the son of the guy who screwed him over.” She almost regrets the pain in Oliver’s voice over the phone, but she tells herself it was a necessary step. She didn’t get into this business to kill victims, not without at least giving them a chance.)

So Felicity tracks Restin to the Redwood United Bank, where things go awry. Felicity has Kyle Restin, Derek’s son, on the ropes when the bank’s security guard unexpectedly revives, shotgun in hand, and shoots Derek in the stomach. “It wasn’t his fault!” Derek gulps, glancing over at his unconscious son as Felicity crouches over him. “I turned him into this!”

Felicity removes her hood for the first time, revealing herself to Derek as he takes his last breath.

She returns to the foundry in a haze of grief and doubt. She sits there for an hour, listening to the rain outside and wondering about her crusade. This grey area… she’s not equipped for it. The List was clear-cut, it was a written ledger of villains and enemies to her cause. But this, tonight, dealing with the fallout of Robert Queen’s past misdeeds, watching one of his victims die before her… she’s just not sure anymore.

She’s still sitting there when Diggle walks in, his heavy footsteps echoing across the expanse of the basement as he steps into the light. “What happened today wasn’t your fault,” he says quietly.

“I never said it was.”

“Felicity. It wasn’t your fault.” He keeps his distance, his hands in his pockets as he stares down at her. “You gave Restin a chance. That’s more than he deserved.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

Diggle concedes the point. “Well listen, I’ll tell you this much: You say that going after the guys on that list is how you honor Robert Queen? Well if he could’ve seen you this week — the way you cared about the people he hurt, the way you stepped up to try to help them — I’d say he’d be pretty damn honored.”

Felicity looks away miserably, but Diggle continues, “Maybe there is more than one way to save this city.”

“Maybe.” But she says it without conviction. She’s low, and she needs time to think. To recalibrate.

“By the way,” Diggle adds, already walking away. “The off-duty cop woke up. He’s going to be fine.”

And as Diggle climbs the metal stairs, Felicity dissolves into silent tears.

 

* * *

 

Things are quiet for a while after the Restin case. Due to the continuing investigation into Derek’s death and his family’s involvement, no names are released to the public in connection to the bank robberies. Felicity hopes the rest of the family, especially his sons, are able to avoid jail time, but it’s in the hands of the court now.

Felicity and Diggle continue to train and track various members of the List, waiting for opportune times to take them out, but for the most part, Felicity is swamped with work and turning the upstairs of the foundry into a nightclub. The only suspicious thing on her radar is the continued absence of Walter, but Oliver insists his stepfather is just investigating the QC holdings in Melbourne and Wellington. Felicity’s doubts disappear when Walter returns to work at the beginning of December, as stoic as ever and happy to be updated on Felicity’s advancements in the IT department.

A week before Christmas, Felicity is ready to execute a plan to take down Frank Bertinelli, the next name on her List, when Adam Hunt turns up dead in a motel room, having taken three black arrows to the chest.

She crouches on the fire escape and listens as Detective Lance, the investigating officer, correctly identifies the black arrows as not belonging to her. “We’re dealing with a copycat,” he tells the police commissioner, who is none too pleased to hear the news.

“Who would kill Adam Hunt with an arrow?” Diggle theorizes that night as they sit in the foundry. “I mean, other than you?”

Felicity shrugs. “A setup, maybe.”

“You mean someone who tried to cover up killing Hunt by making it look like you?”

She shakes her head. “Whoever he was, he’s good. The grouping on Hunt’s chest was tight. It was a compound bow, most likely… the guy is a legitimate archer.”

“How do you know it’s a guy?”

She inhales sharply. “Good point.”

“It sounds like this _other archer_ would be particular about their choice of arrows,” Diggle continues.

Felicity nods in agreement. “We get an arrow, we get a bead on where he purchased them.”

“Or she.”

“Enough.”

He smirks. “So what are you gonna do?”

She thinks about it for a moment, then turns to Diggle with a winning smile. “I promise you won’t hate it as much as you did when I included Oliver Queen.”

“That means it’ll be equally as ill-conceived,” he says, his voice full of dread.

“No. I’m just gonna call a cop.”

 

* * *

 

It’s simple, really. She purchases a burner phone, which she sticks in an envelope addressed to Quentin Lance. It has a tracker on it, of course, and she waits until the dot has sat at the precinct for a good half-hour before she calls it from a blocked number.

“Lance.”

Good start — he picked up. Activating her voice changer, Felicity says, “I didn’t kill Adam Hunt.”

“I know.”

She proposes her plan to Lance, and unsurprisingly, he isn’t onboard with smuggling evidence to a vigilante he doesn’t even trust. Felicity issues all of her dire threats knowing full well that Quentin won’t be able to resist once another body drops. She hangs up and settles in to wait for a call back, but Diggle isn’t interested in sticking around. “I gotta take my nephew to the mall to see Santa.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “It’s Christmas.”

Diggle grins at her as he grabs his jacket. “Yeah. You probably didn’t notice because you’ve been so busy.”

“No, it’s just… There were no holidays on the island. Every day was just… ‘How do I survive?’ To do that, you had to forget things like Christmas.” She shakes her head. “And I guess I brought that back with me.”

“Maybe you should give the list a rest and just… enjoy the holidays,” Diggle suggests with an affectionate smile. “I assume you have family… somewhere?”

She laughs. “If I had family, do you think I’d be fighting to protect someone else’s?”

His smile fades, and for once, Diggle can’t find any words to make her feel better. He just claps her on the shoulder and leaves her to her waiting.

But she doesn’t have to wait long. Only half an hour later, a call comes out that another arrow-ridden body was found in an alley, another name from the list, and ten minutes after that, Felicity’s phone rings.

“There’s a heating vent on the corner of O’Neill and Adams. You’ll find what you’re after there.”

“It would be a mistake to set a trap for me, Detective,” she warns.

“I’m trading away just about everything I believe in here, because it’s the only way I’ve got to get this bastard,” Lance snaps. “You’ve got until Christmas, and then copycat or not — I’m coming after you.”

Yeah, what else is new?

She finds an arrow at the drop location, and Diggle returns from his afternoon of holiday merriment in time to find Felicity examining the arrowhead closely. “Teflon-coated titanium blade, serrated to split the bone, shaft is some type of specialized polymer which is stronger than your typical carbon fiber. This is a custom job.”

Diggle doesn’t even pretend to understand what she just said. Draping his coat over the back of his chair, he asks, “Another body dropped?”

“Nelson Ravich,” she replies distractedly, her eyes still on the arrow.

“Which is another name you just crossed off of Robert Queen’s list,” Diggle points out. “So is this archer trying to frame you, or call you out?”

She shrugs. “Either way, I need to find him.”

 

* * *

 

She does her research at work the next day, running the patent number through a database which shows it registered to a company called Sagittarius. She’s able to track the arrow’s serial number to a bundled shipment that was delivered to a warehouse down at the wharf, which gives her a destination to visit after she gets off work. Now she just needs to do some extra research on this Sagittarius company —

“Hey.”

She jumps about a mile, gasping when she finds Oliver Queen standing right in front of her desk. Is he some kind of ninja?! How did he manage to walk all the way across her cavernous, echoing office without making a sound? Where the hell is Jessa?

“Don’t you knock?” she blurts angrily, then reddens at her outburst. He’s still technically her boss here, or her boss-adjacent at least, and she expects him to get offended by her treatment. In fact, his expression is initially forbidding as he stands -- practically towers -- over her, but after the briefest pause, he breaks into a soft, indulgent laugh.

“Felicity, this is the IT Department. It’s not the ladies room.”

She grins, relieved that he’s not suspicious of her outburst, and hastily minimizes all of her windows so that he can’t see her research of the arrow. “Yeah, sorry. Please sit.”

He sits in the chair in front of her desk and lounges back easily, as if he belongs there, and Felicity looks at him closely for the first time since he walked in. He looks strained, even tense, and he’s using that fake, frozen smile that she’s come to dislike so much.

“What can I do for you?” she asks brightly, opting not to comment on his dark demeanor.

“You remember that case you found a couple weeks ago? The Derek Restin thing?”

Her smile is still carefully composed as she replies, “Yes.”

“Did you know he turned out to be behind that string of bank robberies around the city?”

She arranges her face in a surprised and perplexed expression. “Really?”

But Oliver’s not buying it. There’s a sharp, almost mistrustful look in his eyes as he stares at her. “Yeah. And it gets worse. Apparently the night after I talked to him, Derek Restin was shot and killed… in the presence of that vigilante.”

She presses her lips together and frowns at him, not liking his accusatory tone. “You think there’s some kind of connection… Why? Because I found the file?”

“And because you were the first person this so-called vigilante rescued,” Oliver says without a trace of humor now. She appreciates the type of danger he represents. He doesn’t pose any physical threat to her, but something about Oliver’s disapproval makes her feel morally compromised. It’s something of a superpower he must possess.

“I guess you’re ruling out coincidences.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe in what I know, and what I know is that this guy, whoever he is, is taking out people with money and power. I know he’s been in contact with Laurel. I know he’s threatened Laurel’s dad. I know that _I was arrested_ and accused of being this vigilante. I know you handed me a file for a man who was killed in connection to the vigilante. And I know that this all started the night he rescued you.”

He concludes his speech with such vehemence that his nostrils are flared and his eyes are sparking bright blue. It would be very affecting if Felicity weren’t so angry and reeling right now.

“I’m not going to apologize for being rescued,” she says sharply. “And I hope you don’t mind if I don’t relive that traumatic experience just to put your mind at ease. I can assure you it was worse than your overnight stint in a jail cell.”

He visibly reacts to each of her words like he’s surprised by her emotions. He looks abashed for the first time, and her nerves fray around the edges as she watches him close his eyes. Lying to Oliver is really hard. It feels wrong, somehow, like lying to a nun.

Finally, he opens his eyes and fixes her with a sad, wounded puppy expression. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, leaning forward. “I’m just worried. I don’t know what got into me — Laurel told me this morning that Restin was dead, and I got it into my head that you must’ve known something about it — I’m sorry,” he concludes lamely. “I was out of line.”

“It’s fine,” she replies evenly. “As long as our business relationship is still intact —”

“It is,” he says vehemently, and after a small pause, he moves to the edge of his seat and puts his elbows on his knees. “We’re still on track to open in the new year, and I wanted to ask you something about — about my friend Tommy.”

“Tommy Merlyn? The guy I met at your club?”

“Yeah, that’s the real reason I was going to come down here, before I got a little off-track… Anyway, Tommy kind of came into some financial trouble…” Oliver says carefully.

“Which is Rich Guy Speak for saying his family cut him off,” Felicity supplies with a smirk. “Go on.”

“I was wondering if we could hire him to be an assistant manager at the club.” Oliver gives her his best and brightest smile. “He’s a hard worker, I know it may not seem that way, but he is. I think he’d be great.”

“Well, you’d be in charge of him,” she says firmly. “If it doesn’t work out, you have to be the one to fire him.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then we have a deal. Tell Tommy I said ‘Welcome to the team,’” she says, giving Oliver her own bright smile.

 

* * *

 

That night, she nearly gets herself exploded at the wharf, thanks to a crude trap set by the other archer. She should’ve known those arrows were too easy to trace.

 

* * *

 

“Turn on the news.”

Diggle practically runs into the foundry shouting this at Felicity, who is at the top of the salmon ladder as she looks down at him quizzically. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a hostage situation.” He fumbles for the keyboard and brings up the local news on Felicity’s computer. She drops down from the salmon ladder and hurries over to find a sobbing woman reading from a piece of paper as someone films her on a cell phone camera.

_“Happy holidays, Starling City. For the past three months, this city has been laid siege by a vigilante, but the police have been unable to bring him to justice because they lack the will to do what justice demands. I will kill one hostage every hour in the name of this vigilante until he surrenders himself to my authority.”_

The video cuts out, and Diggle mutes the news as he says, “Police are already on the scene, I think you should let them handle this.”

“Those people are there because of me.”

“Felicity, this guy is dangerous.”

She knows he’s thinking of how she almost got killed the other night, but she can’t let that stop her. “Diggle, there wasn’t anything on the island that wasn’t twice as dangerous as this pretender, and I survived there for five years.”

He doesn’t argue as she walks away to hood up, and she entreats him to stay at the foundry as she goes to rescue the hostages.

As she suspected, the actual rescuing is easy. The hostages had been a lure, and it takes her only thirty seconds to free them and send them to the roof, where they’re rescued by the SCPD. But she encounters the other archer — whose height and build indicate that he is, indeed, a man — and he thanks her for coming. He’s dressed in all black, with a hood similar to her own, and his voice is also electronically modified as he issues his thanks.

“What do you want with me?” she growls through her voice changer.

“What any archer wants: to see who’s better.”

They both draw and shoot in unison, ducking around each other’s arrows and reloading as they run through the warehouse. It’s at least a ten minute fight, which includes rafter-lurking and flying kicks, but the Dark Archer catches her with two arrows in the back at an inopportune moment, and it sends her through some framing and onto the ground. He kicks her repeatedly, even grabbing her hand and twisting her arm to dislocate her shoulder. It takes every ounce of her discipline not to shout from the pain.

“First Hunt, then Ravich, and now you!” the Dark Archer crows as he kicks her repeatedly in the stomach. She curls up, drawing under her hood in a last-ditch effort to conceal her identity, but the pain is howling through her body as she feels two of her ribs crack. “I know about the List, and the man who authored it wants you dead!”

He aims one last kick at her, then adds, “They call you the Hood; let’s see what you look like without it.”

She wraps her hand around one of her calf arrows and swings around, stabbing it into the Dark Archer’s thigh just as he bends down to drag off her hood. He grunts in surprise and reels backward, giving Felicity enough room to punch him with all of her power, knocking him to the ground where he lay motionless.

She drags herself up and away from him, two arrows still stuck in her back. At the nearest corridor, she turns and angles her back to break off the arrows, leaving the tips in her skin as she throws herself out of the nearest window. She lands hard on a dumpster and tumbles to the ground, the jagged gravel adding insult to considerable injury. She crawls on her hands and knees but only makes it two feet before she collapses. She hasn’t known this sort of pain in ages, but it’s a familiar friend to her by now.

Pressing the button on her walkie, she croaks out, “Digg… help…” and then slips into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

She wakes up gasping and prepared to take off running before a big, warm hand comes to rest on her shoulder.

“Hey, relax, relax, you’re safe, you’re in the hospital,” Diggle murmurs to her as she cries out in pain. Her back is killing her and her torso feels like it’s been torn in half as she arches off the bed, but she takes in the peach walls and beeping machines and realizes she’s in the same room as last time.

“What happened?” she grunts out, blinking back tears of pain.

“I back-traced your signal. I cleaned you up and got you out of there. You have a pneumothroax, three broken ribs, and a concussion, but the doctor said you’re gonna be fine. Someone’s here to see you,” he concludes tensely, and he moves away to reveal Walter standing in the doorway of her hospital room.

She’s never seen him look so shaken. He approaches her hospital bed tentatively, his face frozen in horror as he takes her in. “Thank God you were wearing your helmet,” he says finally, and Felicity aims a confused look at Diggle.

“I told him how you were on your bike and a semi pulled right in front of you,” Diggle supplies helpfully. She’s in so much pain that it actually sounds like a credible cover.

“I’ll let you get some rest,” Walter says hastily, patting Felicity’s shoulder lightly. “I have a family Christmas party to get back to, but I wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything.”

“Nothing these painkillers can’t handle,” she jokes, tapping the bag hanging beside her with a small smile. She’s touched beyond words that he’s here. “Thank you, Walter.”

She blinks back tears after he leaves, and Diggle pretends not to notice as he flips through an old copy of _Shape_ magazine and sips his coffee. She allows herself a few minutes of weakness before she wipes her face and struggles to sit up. Grabbing the cane beside her bed, she shuffles over to the window, gasping in pain with each step, until she comes to a stop.

“You know, Digg, when I confront somebody on the List, I tell them that they’ve failed this city. But tonight, it was me who failed.”

“Felicity, five hostages are home tonight, enjoying the holidays with their families because of you. This guy, the other archer? He’ll get his. And you’ll give it to him.”

“We might have a bigger problem. The other archer told me that somebody compiled the list… I always assumed it was Robert. But what if it wasn’t?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think there’s someone else out there, someone who is more of a danger than the archer. And I am going to take him down.”

 

* * *

 

Walter Steele never makes it back to his Christmas party.


	7. i know what it's like to stare death in the face and be the one who blinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s been six weeks, Felicity,” Diggle says sympathetically. “No contact from the kidnappers, no ransom demand, no proof of life. I hate to sound —”
> 
> “Diggle,” she says sharply. “We both know he’s more than likely dead.” She tries to say it with no inflection, but she can’t. It’s killing her, and Diggle knows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurel fans rejoice, for your fave returns in this chapter!

It takes Felicity six weeks to recover from her encounter with the Dark Archer. It means six weeks of being forced to stay inside her own brain, six weeks of healing, six weeks of wondering what she could’ve done differently to defeat the other archer. She’s stronger now than ever before, but she’s the worst she’s even been with her bow — every tennis ball she targets falls to the ground with a bounce.

She’s in the middle of another one of these failed exercises when Diggle walks in. “Rehab going well?” he asks with a smirk. For six weeks, he’s been telling her to take it easy, to stop dwelling on her battle with the other archer, and to focus on healing, but she hasn’t listened. She levels him with an unamused look.

“Any word on Walter?”

“My contact at the Bureau struck out. Same with my guy at Interpol. They’re both saying the same thing.”

She nods. “Either Walter doesn’t want to be found, or someone doesn’t want him to be found.”

“It’s been six weeks, Felicity,” Diggle says sympathetically. “No contact from the kidnappers, no ransom demand, no proof of life. I hate to sound —”

“Diggle,” she says sharply. “We both know he’s more than likely dead.”

She tries to say it with no inflection, but she can’t. It’s killing her, and Diggle knows it. Clearing his throat, he asks, “So what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. My contacts in the Bratva can’t dig anything up, either.”

“I wasn’t talking about Walter.” She turns to see Diggle holding up the List. “You’re back at fighting weight, it looks like. And last time I checked, there was more than a few names to cross off in this book.”

She shakes her head. “They’re not going anywhere. With Walter gone… that needs to be my focus.”

Diggle inhales deeply, and she knows he thinks she’s lost her nerve, but what she needs is more time. That’s all.

And she needs to find Walter.

 

* * *

 

She’s surprised on Saturday morning when her phone rings from Detective Lance’s burner phone. She accepts the call without saying a word, and after a brief pause, she hears Laurel’s voice. “Hello? I need your help.” She must've stolen her dad’s phone.

Felicity hangs up and hoods up for the first time in six weeks. She waits for nightfall, then cuts the power to Laurel’s house and sneaks in, standing with her back to the lawyer.

“I didn’t trust that you’d come," Laurel says tremulously. "No one’s seen you in a while. Where have you been?”

“You said it was important,” Felicity says shortly, so Laurel launches into her case, which involves her best friend’s brother, a firefighter who had died under suspicious circumstances.

“My friend, she thinks her brother was murdered.”

“So you’re asking a killer to look for another killer,” Felicity says. “I saw the fear in your eyes. You called me a killer. You think I have no remorse.”

“Do you?” Laurel challenges. “Just look at the file. If he was murdered, we have to bring him to justice.”

Felicity hesitates a moment before taking the file. “I’ll look into it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Diggle’s working out when she gets to the foundry the next morning. “Laurel reached out to the Hood last night,” she says as she stows her leathers in her trunk.

“Really? I thought you spooked her last time she talked to you.”

“She thinks someone’s killing firemen.”

She hands Diggle the file, and he looks at the scant evidence and says, “Seems pretty thin.”

“Can we look into it?”

Diggle raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Yeah. I have a friend of a friend in the fire investigations department. I’ll reach out.”

She turns away. “If you get any leads, tip the police.”

“The police?”

“They just need something to jump-start them.”

“But… isn’t the whole idea of being a vigilante is that you do the police’s job? After six weeks, I thought you’d be anxious to hood up. Hell, I even had the whole ‘slow down’ speech locked and loaded.”

Her argument is cut off by the sound of a shout upstairs. “I’ll see what’s going on up there — you find out if there are any connections,” she says firmly, shrugging into her coat as she walks away.

Oliver’s been working nonstop on the club ever since Walter went missing. She’d found him there the day after New Years, while she was still bruised and beat up from her “motorcycle accident,” and encountering Oliver at the foundry had not been on her radar. She’d been quite unprepared for his horrified expression, his long gaze at the wounds on her face, or the shock that his presence sent through her body.

She wasn’t sure if it was his new zeal to complete the club, her latest brush with death, or both, but there was some kind of magnetic charge to Oliver that she could sense tangibly, like standing too close to him would make her skin crackle. It was in direct juxtaposition to his new attitude, because while she was suddenly acutely aware of him, he’d conversely begun looking right through her with a frenetic gleam in his eyes. It was deeply frustrating, almost alarmingly so, because while he’d been the picture of accommodation and personal boundaries before Christmas, now he seems completely unaware of when he’s standing too close to her.

It only took a couple of hours in his presence for Felicity to sense that something was wrong with Oliver, that these new pieces and aspects of his personality were jagged and splintered. His manic way of ordering around the contractors and builders have caused a unique sort of tension at the foundry; while everyone tries to walk on eggshells around him, Oliver still finds things that send him into fits of anger, but no one ever seems to rise to his bait. Even the head contractor, a generally combative man named Geoff, simply bows his head and takes the verbal beating from Oliver until it’s over.

She figures out this strange dynamic on a bitter Wednesday morning before work, when she witnesses Tommy Merlyn entreating Geoff to continue his non-confrontational tactics. “You know what he’s going through with his stepdad being missing,” she overhears Tommy saying in a low voice, “So I really appreciate you and your guys keeping your heads down. You’ll all get bonuses when the construction is complete.”

“Bonuses, huh?” she chirps, stepping up to Tommy as soon as Geoff is out of earshot. “I don’t remember signing off on that.”

“Ms. Smoak… is it weird that I’ve gotten used to you popping up here at odd hours?” Tommy says with a cheeky smile. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you like it here more than you like your bachelorette pad.”

“Everyone knows my aesthetic is island chic with a hefty side of construction debris,” she returns lightly.

He grimaces and touches the back of his neck nervously. “Yeah, I was going to ask you about bonuses next time I saw you… Thing is, the guys are working at double speed and trying to give Oliver a wide berth, and he’s not making it easy. I’ve had to smooth over a lot sticky situations when I come in to find him here.”

“Have you tried talking to him?”

“Yeah!” he says earnestly, his eyes wide. “It… Didn’t go well.”

Truthfully, their budget for the nightclub is pretty tight. Their line of credit, while generous, is almost at its max thanks to Oliver insisting on several high-end finishes to appeal to the wealthy elite. But Felicity’s got more than enough money in her personal bank account to accommodate bonuses, especially if it means keeping up the morale around here. She nods at Tommy after giving it some thought and says, “Well, consider the bonuses approved. I’ll do up the paperwork today and bring it by so that the guys know it’s official.”

Tommy breaks into a deeply relieved smile. “Wow, that’s just — thank you so much.”

Ever since that conversation, Felicity has been consciously bearing the brunt of Oliver’s wrath, directing all of his anger and frustration toward herself to spare the workers, and all the while, Oliver’s refused to talk about why he’s been so temperamental.

Now, she finds him working up a head of steam about Geoff, who has made the grave error of taking a Sunday morning off. She hears the tail end of the rant as she shuts the basement door behind her, but she thinks she gets the gist of it by the time she finds Oliver in the middle of the room.

“… why no one else is here at 9:00 on a Sunday morning!” He’s snapping at one of the welders. “If you don’t get this done, we’ll get a new contractor who can do it right!”

“Oliver?” Felicity says tentatively as the worker gives her a relieved look and backs away. “Hey. What… are you doing here?”

He swings around and doesn’t appear to be surprised to see her. In fact, her presence does nothing to calm him, and she feels that increasingly familiar charge of awareness humming along her spine as she squares her shoulders. He barely glances at her before he turns back to the blueprints, saying, “I was thinking we could have a fundraiser here for the fire department. Raise some money for the families.”

“The fire department?” she repeats, feigning ignorance as she walks around the table to stand across from him. “Because of that man who was killed on duty?”

“His sister is a friend of Laurel’s,” Oliver explains in a hostile tone, as if he expects her to shoot down his idea. “She’s having a tough time. They all are.”

“Well, I think it’s a great idea,” she says.

If he’s surprised by her immediate capitulation, he doesn’t show it. He merely nods once and continues, “We could do it here, keep the overhead low, make sure we maximize the proceeds to the firemen.”

“That sounds good… Oliver?” She places her palms flat on the blueprints and slides them away from him, demanding his attention. He looks up at her grudgingly, and she asks, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.” He doesn’t look fine. His eyes are a little wild, and there’s a fury that’s becoming all too commonplace in his expression.

“If this is about Walter…” she starts softly.

“It’s not —” he snaps, and she jumps at the sound of his voice cracking across the foundry. He clenches his jaw and mutters, “It’s not about Walter. It’s my mother. She’s… it’s just like when my dad…” He trails off miserably, and Felicity wonders, fleetingly, what it was like for Robert's family to be left behind, to be humiliated by his last actions as they grieved his loss. 

“I can’t imagine the pain you and your family are going through right now,” Felicity murmurs after a beat, afraid of running him off if she says too much.

“She’s refusing to take over Queen Consolidated, even though it’s what the COO wants,” Oliver says quietly. “She just sits in her room and cries. Thea’s worried out of her mind.”

He’s bent over the table, his hands balled into fists that he’s pressing into the metal like he wants to punch right through. He’s a ball of anger and nervous energy, and Felicity only knows too well how he’s feeling. She can’t offer him any comfort, not when she’s so sure Walter, her trusted mentor and his stepfather, is dead.

“Oliver —” she starts, but she’s interrupted by Diggle, who is strolling into the foundry through the front entrance.

“Ms. Smoak, we’re going to need to leave if you’re going to make your hair appointment,” he says loudly. She glances at him quizzically, but he widens his eyes a bit and adds, “Now.”

“Sorry,” she says to Oliver hastily. “Just… try to go easy on these guys, okay? And keep me updated on your progress.”

“No problem,” he calls after her as she hurries to follow Diggle outside.

“Hair appointment?” she mutters darkly to Diggle, who lifts his massive shoulders unapologetically.

“I was gonna say you had a dentist appointment, but it’s Sunday.” He waits until they’re outside to continue. “A red Ford pickup was spotted outside of the fire where Danny de la Vega died. That same pickup is sitting across the street from an active fire at Stag Chemicals.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve got your gear in the car.”

She stops walking, her hands going clammy as her mind races with fragmented memories of the Dark Archer, the hospital, the island, and bouncing tennis balls. It takes Diggle a second to realize she’s not in step with him anymore, and he glances back and sees her watching him hesitantly. “Felicity, by the time I alert someone at the police station, one of those firemen will be dead. They need the guy in the hood.”

She takes a deep, steadying breath, shaking away the cobwebs of fear and blame, and follows Diggle to the towncar.

All four floors of the Stag Chemicals building are ablaze when she arrives. She’s never been one to run into fiery buildings, and given her absence from the vigilante game for the last six weeks, Felicity is more than a little apprehensive as she sneaks into the sweltering building. Leather, usually a boon in the cold climate of Starling City, suddenly seems like a really bad idea.

Things turn bad very quickly; she’s only just made it onto the rafters when she sees a helpless firefighter being thrown into the inferno. She swings down and engages the man who is still standing at the railing, swinging and punching as hard as she can, but the heat gets to her, and the firefighter catches her off-balance. She lands hard on her tailbone as the firefighter kicks her in her freshly-healed ribs, and then he throws a device that creates a fireball and disappears, leaving her gasping on the ground.

She returns to the foundry alone, her face streaked with soot and tears, and she sits in the darkness for hours, thinking about her mission, her time on the island, and the man who had just died. She’s glad Diggle isn’t here; she suspects he’s giving her space.

Finally, as the sun starts peeking in through the high windows, she pulls out her phone and dials the burner phone that she knows Laurel still has. “I have some information for you. The killer drives a 1970’s Ford pickup. There’s a scar on his right wrist from a severe burn, and a tattoo of a firefly.”

“Well then you must’ve gotten pretty close to him.”

Felicity scrunches up her face against a new onslaught of tears. “All of the men in engine company 15 had firefly tattoos. Any of them could be the killer.”

“What should I do with this information?”

Felicity hardens her voice as she says, “Whatever you would’ve done before you met me.”

She hangs up as Diggle walks into the foundry, and he’s incredulous as he asks, “So Laurel’s on her own against a murderer who burns people alive?”

“I can’t right every wrong in this city,” Felicity says hollowly, standing up and tossing her phone onto the metal desk.

“No, I get that, but maybe you’re not back to 100% like you thought you were,” Diggle says sharply.

She turns to face him, her chin up as she scornfully says, “Maybe I’m not.”

Diggle swings his arm so quickly that a normal person wouldn’t have caught it, but Felicity deflects it with her forearm. Unfortunately, Diggle seizes her wrist and uses it to twist her around and pin her to the desk behind her. She waits for just a second, to give him a false sense of victory, before she jabs her elbow back sharply into his abdomen. He releases her as she spins around and pins him to the desk using the same method he’d just employed; breathing heavily, she snarls, “What did that prove?”

Diggle rolls his eyes. “This is one sturdy desk?” He stands up and shakes out his arm. “And that clearly, your problem isn’t physical.”

“I never said I had a problem!” she shouts, her voice echoing around the basement.

“You didn’t have to, Felicity. But this guy, this Dark Archer? He got into your head, he took something from you!”

“That’s enough,” she growls.

“He took whatever is in your heart that makes you jump off buildings and take out bad guys,” Diggle continues cruelly. “You can avoid me, Felicity, or avoid this as long as you want. But until you’re ready to take hold of the fear that’s within you, you might as well let that archer kill you!”

Her phone buzzes with a text. “It’s from Oliver,” she says out loud. “I need to run an errand for the benefit before I go into work.”

“Maybe while you’re at it, you can let me know if you still want to be a vigilante or just an IT person who owns half a nightclub.”

And to think, he hadn’t wanted to join her crusade at first.

 

* * *

 

“Oh! Um. Hi, Felicity.”

“Laurel! … Hello.”

Laurel looks more than a little spooked as she walks up the driveway toward the firestation, which Felicity is exiting. They stop about ten feet apart, each shifting uncomfortably as they try to figure out how to talk to each other. Laurel, of course, thinks the last time they spoke was outside of Felicity’s apartment in August, but Felicity’s thinking of how she just talked to Laurel on the phone this morning.

“I promise I’m not trying to ambush you,” Laurel says hastily, taking a few steps closer to Felicity now. “I’m here as part of an investigation.”

“No, of course not,” Felicity says reassuringly. “I’m just here to finalize the guest list for Oliver’s benefit.”

“Right. He’s been working hard on that.” She nods slowly. “And I wanted to thank you… for hiring Tommy. Oliver says you were very understanding.”

“It was nothing,” Felicity says easily. “So, an investigation at the fire station, huh? Is someone stealing dalmatians?”

“No, I… I can’t really talk about it. It has to do with the recent deaths of two firefighters.”

“And the whole reason Oliver wants to have this benefit,” Felicity adds knowingly.

Laurel hesitates. “I don’t think that’s the whole reason…” She shifts her weight and steps closer to Felicity. “Tommy’s really worried about him. He thinks Oliver’s headed for another bender. He’s barely sleeping, he’s never home, he’s all wrapped up in this benefit as if he’s trying to avoid thinking about…”

“Walter.” Felicity sighs, feeling a dull ache in her chest that’s been there since Christmas.

Laurel frowns ruefully. “Our feelings, our fears… they control us. It’s not the other way around. You know?”

Swallowing hard, Felicity bobs her head. “Yes. I do.”

Laurel offers her a small smile. “I should get inside. It was good seeing you.”

Felicity watches her walk away, feeling torn between what she wants to do and what she knows she should do. It’s a single thought — Walter — that ultimately sends her into the fire station after Laurel.

“… four of these eight men are now dead!” Laurel is saying, clearly astonished at the police chief’s attitude as Felicity walks up behind them.

“It’s not all getting cats out of trees, Miss Lance,” Chief Raines replies impatiently.

“Three of them died within the last six weeks, except for that man right there,” she replies insistently, pointing at the picture. “Garfield Lynns. He died two years ago in the Nodell Tower tragedy.”

That’s when Raines spots Felicity, and he breaks into a relieved smile. “Did you forget something, Miss Smoak?” he asks, happy for the interruption as Laurel throws Felicity a sharp sidelong look.

“Just wanted to see if my friend needed some help,” she says brightly. Raines’ face falls as Laurel turns back to him slowly, and Felicity asks, “What was the Nodell Tower?”

“I’m surprised you don’t remember it,” Raines grumbles, agitated.

Felicity fixes him with a steely smile. “I was out of wifi range for five years.”

Raines takes a deep breath, then tells the story of the Nodell Tower — 22 floors of steel and glass that hadn’t been built to code, so when a gas line blew, the whole thing melted and collapsed. “Thirty-four civilians and six of my fellow firemen died. Now, do you need anything else, Miss Lance? Other than reminding me of all the friends I’ve lost and buried?”

Raines storms away, more than a little agitated, and Laurel hurries out of the fire station with Felicity on her heels.

“Laurel! What was all that about?” Felicity asks hurriedly.

“It was nothing, Felicity. I have to go.”

Laurel’s only ten feet away when she pulls out her phone. Felicity’s purse buzzes and she ducks around the corner before she answers her phone.

“I spoke to Danny’s old chief. I didn’t get anywhere. What am I supposed to do now?”

“Nothing,” Felicity says quietly. “It’s my turn.”

 

* * *

 

“I thought you were done helping Laurel,” Diggle says that afternoon, watching as Felicity continues in her relentless research of the Nodell Tower tragedy in her QC office.

“The first Firefly to die, his name was Garfield Lynns.”

“Yeah, well, being dead kinda rules him out as a murder suspect, right?”

Felicity rolls her eyes, and Diggle uses her divided attention to pull up one of her chairs and sit down. “Listen, Felicity, I’m sorry I came at you so hard. But I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to stare death in the face and… be the one who blinks.”

“That’s not it,” she says softly, placing her tablet on her desk. “I’ve been close to death on the island… more times than I can remember. And I never feared it, because I had nothing to lose. But when that archer almost killed me, when I stared death in the face then, I thought about all the people that I’ve let into my life since I’ve been back. Walter, you, even Oliver… and that made me afraid. Afraid of what would happen to those people if I’m not here to protect them. And for the first time in so long… I had something to lose.”

“I think you’ve got it backwards, Felicity,” Diggle says gently. “You think the people you let in are taking your edge. I think it gives you one. Maybe a stronger one, even. You can stare down death with something to live for, or not. Something to live for? Is better.”

“But I lost something,” she murmurs, fighting tears. “Walter is not the type of person to just abandon his family. Abandon me. Someone took him, and whether that had something to do with me… I’m afraid it’s my fault.”

“Then you keep fighting until you get answers,” Diggle replies. “If he’s gone because of something to do with that list, then you keep crossing off names and asking questions until someone answers you.”

She gives him a watery smile. “All the men in the unit had an alibi for Danny’s murder, but the guy I fought had a tattoo, and his arm was badly burned.”

“Okay,” Diggle says, rolling with the subject change. “I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

“Some of the bodies at the Nodell Tower were so badly burned that they couldn’t identify them. What if Lynns was just presumed dead?”

 

* * *

 

The benefit is in full swing when Felicity arrives (a little late, as usual) and takes in the club’s transformation. It’s still not finished — there are areas roped off with construction tape to keep people at the center of the room, but it’s a glimpse of the vision Oliver has in mind, and Felicity likes it. She spots Tommy tending bar (and holding a captive audience) while Laurel and Oliver stand at the end of it, talking in low voices. Felicity greets several people on her way over to them, and Oliver gives her a distracted but warm smile as she approaches.

“What do you think?” he asks tensely, leaning close so she can hear the question, and she would empty her considerable bank account right now if it meant she could stop her body from responding to him this way.

“It’s fantastic,” she says appreciatively. “Just like you envisioned.”

“Not quite,” he says, straightening and sipping his tonic water morosely.

“Can I talk to Laurel for a second?” Felicity asks, grasping Laurel’s elbow and pulling her away.

Oliver looks astonished. “Yeah… why?”

“We’ll be right back!” Felicity chirps as she propels Laurel across the room.

“What are you doing?” Laurel hisses confusedly, but Felicity ignores her.

“Chief Raines!”

The chief, who had been standing at one of the bar tables chatting with a group of benefactors, spins around, drink in hand, and says, “Miss Smoak. This is spectacular. The Starling City Fireman’s Relief Association can’t thank you enough.”

“You guys are the real heroes,” Felicity says warmly. “Like at the Nodell Tower fire, which I’ve been reading up on.”

“Oh yeah?” He says it conversationally, but there’s an edge to his tone nonetheless.

“Garfield Lynns was the first man to die in the unit. I read that they recovered his coat, but they never found his body?”

Laurel, who had looked nonplussed and a little annoyed at first, suddenly stands up straighter as she stares at Felicity with a newfound respect. Chief Raines, meanwhile, looks angry ask he asks, “Do you always interrogate your club guests, Miss Smoak?”

“Why?” Felicity asks sweetly. “Do you feel like you’re being interrogated?”

“She can tell from your face at the fire station,” Laurel intervenes quickly. “There’s more to the Nodell Tower fire than people know about, isn’t there?”

Felicity steps back as Raines levels Laurel with a remorseful expression. He describes the fire as something out of a science fiction movie, and how Lynns had gone back into the building against express orders. “He begged me to send a unit back in, but I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t. God help me, I left him to burn. But I can’t bring him back.”

“You don’t have to,” Laurel says with dawning horror, looking between Raines and Felicity. “He _is_ back. Garfield Lynns killed Danny and the other men on that unit.”

“There’s no way he could’ve survived that fire,” Raines says with certainty.

“Just like you won’t make it out of this one.”

Felicity and Laurel turn at the sound of the muffled voice. Lynns is standing there, dressed in full gear, and before any of them can react, he lobs an explosive behind the bar. A fireball erupts behind them, sending everyone screaming and scrambling for the exits. Instinctively, Felicity steps in front of Laurel, shielding her from Lynns as he takes another step toward them. She glances around the bar and spots Oliver and Tommy, assisted by Diggle, shunting the crowd out of the foundry and toward safety. Occasionally, Oliver and Tommy throw terrified glances at the trapped trio as they shout directions at the terrified crowd.

Lynns, meanwhile, removes his visor as he tosses another explosive. Half of his face is deeply scarred from a severe burn, and he fixes Raines with a murderous glare as more flames erupt around them.

“What the hell are you doing?” Raines asks, standing up straight even as his voice belies his fear.

Lynns turns his head slowly, pointing a nozzle at Felicity and Laurel. “Run,” he says, looking straight through them.

Felicity doesn’t hesitate — she pushes Laurel in front of her and they take off running just as a beam falls between them. “Go!” Felicity yells, and Laurel scrambles toward the exit as Felicity uses the chaos to slip away to the basement.

It only takes her a minute to hood up, and she’s back upstairs just in time to see Lynns dousing Raines with turpentine. Lynns holds up a lighter with a manic smile, and just as he tosses it, Felicity takes aim and lets her arrow fly. Unlike every single tennis ball of the last six weeks, the lighter is struck with a satisfying ding and goes flying into the growing fire.

Lynns turns, disgusted, as Felicity growls, “Go!” at Raines, who stumbles away, dazed.

“I’m not afraid to die,” Lynns says coldly.

“I know. You’re afraid to live.” She lowers her bow as Lynns’ good eye widens in surprise. “Let me get you help.”

Lynns looks at the ground, contemplating the offer for a moment. “Thanks,” he says finally, in a tone that sends a chill through Felicity’s body. “But I’m already burned.”

“Don’t!” she screams, but he doesn’t listen as he walks toward the fire. She tears her eyes away as he goes up in flames.

 

* * *

 

A few firefighters spot her as she tries to slip out of the foundry unnoticed. They shout after her, using all of the monikers she’s heard tossed around by news reporters, but she manages to make it to the basement door without being followed. The process of getting out of the leathers is harder now that she’s coming off of her adrenaline high. Her hands shake as she slips back into her dress, and she has to take several deep, steadying breaths before she heads outside to the waiting crowd.

“I saw Raines made it out,” Diggle says in a low voice when she meets up with him on the sidewalk. “Everything go okay?”

“Lynns is dead,” she says curtly, working hard to keep her face impassive. “Walked right into the fire.”

“If he didn’t want to be saved —”

“I know, Digg,” she says tiredly. “Do me a favor, go make sure no one tries to get into the basement. They should have the fire under control, but just in case. I need to go find Laurel.”

“I’m on it,” Diggle says, and she watches him walk away, taking another couple of deep breaths to compose herself.

“Where the hell were you!” a voice thunders from behind her, and Felicity turns, startled, to find Oliver striding toward her furiously.

“What?” she asks defensively, still disoriented and shaky. 

“Laurel told us you were still trapped in there, we were worried sick!” he says angrily, but it’s undercut by the relief in his expression. “What happened?”

“I was blocked, so I found another way out, I was on the other side of the building,” she says loudly as he comes to stand right in front of her, once again invading her personal space. She tries to take a step back, if only to see his face better, but he grabs her arms just below her shoulders and the contact roots her to the sidewalk. “Oliver, calm down.”

“What were you thinking?” he snaps, and she can see a vein throbbing in his temple as he towers over her. She thinks he might shake her just to make sense of it, but he holds her still, looking right into her eyes as he continues, “Our nightclub is a briquette and you couldn’t be bothered to come around the building and tell us you were okay? What were you even doing talking to the chief like that? Laurel said you were accusing him of some crime —”

“Okay first of all,” Felicity says, putting on finger in the middle of his chest and pushing, hard, which sends him back a couple of steps as he releases her. “I’m here now, and I’m telling you I’m okay. Secondly, don’t stand there and take out all of your misplaced grief and anger on me, it’s getting old.”

He clenches his jaw. “What is that supposed to mean?”

She barks out a mirthless laugh as she crosses her arms. “It means that just because you won’t talk about Walter doesn’t mean we don’t all know what you’re going through.”

He blinks, his eyes searching hers as his anger builds into fury. “What?”

“Oliver, you’ve been screaming at the contractor, chewing out the waiters, and basically ripping the poor painter a new one,” she says, exasperated. “Now you’re standing here yelling at me for something I couldn’t control.”

He curls his lip angrily, his fists clenching and unclenching as he shifts his weight. Felicity thinks if she were a man, he would’ve swung by now, but he stands there in directionless anger, bursting at the seams, practically emanating that irresistible charge that she feels in her bones, until finally, she leans forward and grasps his bicep gently.

The touch seems to siphon all of his rage. He deflates, his shoulders slumping as his eyes go to the ground. “You said it yourself, our nightclub is a briquette,” she says softly. “Take some time. Go be with your family. The club will be here when you’re ready to come back.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just nods once at the ground, then turns and melts into the crowd.

She doesn’t see him for a month after that, but Moira Queen takes over as CEO the very next week.


	8. can i trust you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Whoever you fear,” Felicity bellows through the voice-changer, “Fear me more!”

Construction — or, more appropriately, reconstruction — on the club is underway as soon as the insurance checks clear. Felicity works in tandem with Tommy Merlyn, who proves himself more than capable of commanding a workforce of construction workers in Oliver’s absence. For twelve hours each day, the sounds of welding and sawing are deafening as Felicity and Diggle work in the basement. She ends up installing a side entrance into the alley in order to avoid any unlucky sightings, and she manages to cross a couple more names off the list, including Diggle’s old boss, Ted Gaynor. That turns out to be a particularly tense week for their partnership, but they come out of it with their trust in each other reinforced, even after Felicity and Diggle face off at arrow- and gun-point.

Felicity had assumed that once Moira took over Queen Consolidated, she would be fired by the end of her first day. When that didn’t come about, Felicity thought for sure that she would finally have to meet Moira face to face, but a whole month passes without a summons from the CEO. All of Felicity’s requests and meetings go through the COO, Ned Foster, which effectively insulates her from having to deal with Moira in any official capacity. She suspects this was purposeful on Moira’s part, so Felicity keeps her head down and makes sure everything that crosses her desk is finished or fixed to perfection; no sense in giving Moira a reason to get rid of her.

Moira is possibly distracted in early February when her daughter, Thea, crashes her brand new car on the night of her eighteenth birthday. She’s later arrested for driving under the influence of a drug called “vertigo.”

“It’s a new drug that originated in the Glades. Supposed to give you a ‘new’ kind of high,” Diggle explains the next evening as they huddle in the cold basement. Their conversation is punctuated by the wet saw the men are using upstairs as they lay the expensive tile that Tommy had only approved that morning. “Until this case, it wasn’t really a drug that the rich kids were taking.”

“Looks like I need to take another break from the list and go hunting,” Felicity remarks. “Unless you happen to know who’s supplying it, too?”

“Do I look like a man who does recreational drugs?” Diggle asks dryly.

So Felicity goes hunting. Over four nights, she tracks down vertigo dealers and interrogates them for the name of their supplier, but whoever he is appears to be well insulated. It’s not until the fifth night, after she’s already hunted two other pushers, that she finally corners one with information.

“I can’t tell you!” he screams hysterically as he hangs fifteen feet in the air from a wooden beam by his sleeve, which is pierced through with an arrow. “He’ll kill me!”

“Whoever you fear,” Felicity bellows through the voice-changer, “Fear me more!”

“Okay, okay! They call him ‘The Count,’ that’s all I know!”

“The Count?” Diggle repeats later when she gets back to the foundry. “That’s worse than ‘the Hood.’”

“Whoever he is, he has blood on his hands,” Felicity says humorlessly. “I need to find out what the police know.”

It’s easier said than done. She can’t call the burner because Laurel still has it, and she doesn’t have another inside track at the police station, so she takes to staking out the alleyway behind the station where the cops do most of their comings and goings. During this time, Thea’s plea agreement is thrown out by a judge who wants to make an example of her. Things look dire at that point; the judge wants the city to know that if Thea Queen can’t get away with consuming vertigo, then no one can. Felicity doesn’t glean anything of use from her stakeouts besides an illuminating conversation between Detective Lance and Laurel, who is apparently appealing to her father on Thea’s behalf as he leaves the station late one night. Felicity watches from a shadowy fire escape as father and daughter approach.

“… know how you feel about the Queen family, Dad—”

“Then why would you ask me to do this?”

“Because Thea is only eighteen!”

“Which makes her an adult. She can take her medicine. It’s about time someone in the Queen family did.”

“What about in the Lance family?”

Detective Lance pulls up and stops right below Felicity’s hiding place, squinting at his daughter quizzically.

“A young girl acting out, engaging in reckless behavior,” Laurel continues mercilessly. “Does that sound familiar?”

“Laurel, don’t go there,” he says warningly.

“Thea is just like I remember Sara.”

“That is _not_ how I remember your sister!” Lance snaps.

“That’s because you remember her the way you wish she had been, not the way she actually was! She was not the saint that you make her out to be. I know she was arrested for shoplifting, and I know you made it go away.”

“Well maybe if I’d let her go to jail, Queen wouldn’t have had her on that damn boat,” Lance says cruelly. Felicity looks away, suddenly feeling like an intruder on a conversation she shouldn’t be hearing.

“Dad, you make it sound like he kidnapped her,” Laurel reasons in a gentler tone. “For so long, you have blamed Robert, and I have blamed Oliver, for Sara’s death, but Sara is to blame, too. When I look at Thea, I see Sara’s potential in her, and her flaws, too. Yes, Thea made a mistake, but she’s been through a lot. She lost a father and a stepfather — she doesn’t need prison, she needs help. Please, Dad.”

Felicity blinks back tears as she listens for Lance’s answer. They stand there for a long moment, and then he mutters, “I’ll make some calls.”

 

* * *

 

With her stakeouts at the police station turning out to be a dead end, Felicity hatches a plan that involves visiting a mechanic’s garage in the Glades, which puts Diggle on edge. “I’ve seen a fair amount of Cyrillic back in Afghanistan leftover by the Soviets,” he says in a low voice as he takes in his surroundings. “Is this Russian-owned?”

“This is the not-so-hidden headquarters for the Starling City Bratva,” Felicity responds just as quietly, turning to her partner. “Diggle, whatever I say, whatever goes down, just go with it.”

Diggle gives her a deeply apprehensive look as she greets the Bratva captain in Russian. “A long time, particularly for Bratva captain,” Alexi says in his thick accent, glancing at Diggle suspiciously.

“I was trying to decide where to invest my considerable fortune,” Felicity says sharply. “I decided on pharmaceuticals. And I don’t mean aspirin.”

She tosses down her canvas bag full of cash, and Alexi grins appreciatively. “A wise investment.”

“I was thinking vertigo,” she continues, raising her chin. “The new thing around town.”

Alexi’s expression becomes shuttered. “Tough market, vertigo. Only one seller.”

“I know. I was hoping you could do me a favor and arrange a meeting.”

“He’s a difficult man. He does not like new friends.” Alexi gives her a cold smile.

She turns to Diggle, who hands her a folder silently. Holding it out to Alexi, she says, “This is everything the police have on him. Tell him it’s a gift.” It’s a ruse; the police have scant information on The Count, but Felicity is hoping her money goes further than her information.

“I will see what I can do, provided you do favor for me,” Alexi replies defiantly.

“Anything,” Felicity responds in Russian.

One of his associates drags out a half-beaten, handcuffed man as Alexi looks Felicity up and down.

“It is unusual for an American to hold such a position of esteem in our organization, to speak nothing of you being a woman, Miss Smoak,” Alexi says slowly, almost as a challenge. “Anatoly Kynazev speaks very highly of you indeed.”

“He should. I saved his life.” She stares down at the bound man who is now crumpled at Alexi’s feet. “What did he do?”

“Something I told him not to,” Alexi responds flippantly. “Another favor: Kill this man for me, and I will believe your interest in our organization is genuine. Only then will I arrange a meeting with The Count.”

Felicity schools her expression into one of cold calculation as she stares down at the panicking man, then she moves forward and grabs him effortlessly around the neck, standing him up and squeezing tight.

“Felicity…” Diggle says warningly, his eyes wide.

“Shut up!” Felicity hisses, her mind on the island, in the middle of a muddy clearing, with Yao Fei’s arm wrapped similarly around her neck before her vision had gone black.

It only takes a few seconds, and then the man goes still in her arms. She tosses him to the ground carelessly and steps over the body, giving Alexi a hard look as Diggle moves away from her, horrified. The associate bends down to check the man’s pulse, then nods up at Alexi, who gleefully murmurs, “Thank you!” in Russian.

“What are friends for?” she asks with narrowed eyes.

“You dispose of this, and I will arrange meeting with The Count,” Alexi says appreciatively as he kicks at the man’s body. “Good day, Miss Smoak.”

“I can’t believe you just killed that guy!” Diggle hisses as soon as they’re outside. He refused to pick up the body, so Felicity carries it out to the car and stuffs it unceremoniously into the trunk. Glancing up at Diggle with a battle-weary sigh, she remarks, “You really have a low opinion of me, don’t you?”

She glances around, making sure the parking lot is deserted, then presses down on the pressure point in the seemingly dead man’s neck. He springs to life almost cartoonishly, sitting up with a gasp, and Diggle appreciatively says, “Whoa, that’s a neat trick! You gonna teach me that one day?”

She rolls her eyes and punches the man squarely in the jaw, knocking him out. “No,” she says to Diggle as she slams the trunk shut. “Arrange a new identity for this guy and get him out of the city.”

“Okay. So your Ruskie pals draw out The Count and the vigilante takes him down?” Diggle asks, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“No, because if they find out he’s alive, the Bratva will know I used them, and that relationship is too valuable. I do the meet with The Count as myself, let him leave, then we follow him to his hideout,” Felicity says as she buckles in.

“It’s just that easy.”

“Well I’ll still need my trusty bodyguard,” she says sweetly as he starts the car.

“That’s what that tattoo is,” Diggle mutters as the revelation comes over him. “The one over your heart. It’s a Bratva seal.”

“And the reason I wear high necklines,” Felicity says lightly. “Now come on, let’s go start your new career as a drug dealer!”

 

* * *

 

The meeting is set for that night, on top of a parking garage downtown. It’s bitterly cold, the damp kind of cold that seeps into their clothes and penetrates to their bones. Their breath rises in fogs as they stand waiting for The Count, Felicity’s hands buried deep in the pockets of her coat as Alexi makes idle conversation.

“Do you know why they call him The Count? When he was developing this drug, he experimented on the homeless, prostitutes, runaways... the police would find their bodies, puncture marks on their necks… like a vampire.”

A black SUV pulls up and comes to a stop. Felicity’s eyes follow it warily as Alexi dispenses a warning, or perhaps some advice: “You should not be in such a hurry to meet this man.”

She disagrees. She can’t wait to meet him.

He emerges, all jawline and wild eyes, and she instantly knows he’s The Count because of the way everyone else moves around him. He saunters up, his eyes raking up and down Felicity as one of his men pats her down.

“Thank you for this!” he says in an unctuous tone, holding up the folder as the man moves to pat down Diggle. “But I’m not overly concerned with the SCPD.”

He speaks erratically, his head moving around as if to keep up with his eyes, which are still scanning and calculating. If she were untrained — if she had met him before the island — she would find him threatening in a completely unpredictable, almost unhinged way. But now she stands coiled, ready for his strike as she pretends to be chagrined.

“Now, I understand you wish to participate in the feel-good business,” he says, dancing a little as he says it.

“Yes,” she responds with practiced, restrained enthusiasm.

“And why is that?” The Count’s eyes narrow as he steps closer to her, still taking in her entire face.

“Well, I’m opening a nightclub, and I’d like my customers to have a little… something extra,” she says.

He lifts his chin and looks down his nose at her appraisingly, then dances backwards as he says, “As it happens, I’m looking to expand my brand!”

Diggle drops the bags of cash on the ground at The Count’s feet in response.

“Good wine’s value is measured by its vintage,” he continues as he opens a briefcase and reveals an assortment of baggies. “The number of years it took to ferment. Vertigo is measured in lives. Fifty-six people died to perfect this high. Believe me when I say that they did not die for nothing.”

He holds the bag up in front of her nose, his frenzied smile contorting his otherwise handsome face. He’s deranged, she can tell, but she doesn’t know if it was drugs that addled his brain or if his particular brand of madness had led to the drug. She stands there woodenly with a strained smile as he closes the briefcase and hands it to her with a flourish, and then his face is illuminated with red and blue lights — the lights from an SCPD cruiser. What a spectacular stroke of bad luck.

They all scatter, with the Russians ducking into their cars as Felicity and Diggle dash for cover in front of The Count’s SUV. The Count himself heads for a stairwell at the back of the garage, and after a moment of hesitation, Felicity streaks after him, ignoring Diggle’s calls for her to come back. She hopes it’s dark enough to obscure her silhouette, but she’s mostly focused on pursuing The Count to his hiding place.

He catches her by surprise as he swings around on the first landing, though — his arm shoots out toward her, and she lets out a feral yell as something pierces right through her coat and shirt and into her chest.

“No witnesses!” The Count hisses with a demented gleam, pausing only to stroke Felicity’s cheek sickeningly, then he’s gone in a streaky blur, and the world falls into slow motion — even the gunshots sound absurd as the stairwell seems to turn on its side. She clutches at the thing in her chest — it’s a syringe — and yanks it out just as she loses her balance, but strong arms curl around her as she hears Diggle’s deep, slow voice asking if she’s all right.

“Keep it,” she mumbles as she curls an arm around his neck and presses the syringe into his hand. “Digg — keep it —”

“All right, all right, let’s go,” he says, and the last thing she remembers is being scooped up.

 

* * *

 

She wakes up writhing on freezing metal, stripped to her bra from the waist up. Her head turns spastically as her body seizes up, and she sees a figure huddled just out of the light, rummaging around and making noise that seems to clang and echo through her brain. Her whole body hurts, like her blood is molten lava coursing through and burning her from the inside out. If she could scream, she would.

A face appears before her, distorted and shadowed, and she reaches up and latches on, squeezing as hard as she can. Every nerve in her body is on fire, every muscle is strained with effort, and still a large, strong hand wraps around her wrist and fights to break her hold.

“Felicity!” she hears the figure say, but she only squeezes harder, fighting to kill the threat until all the strength leaves her body and she collapses.

Her hands are folded across her chest and held there as liquid spills over her face and into her mouth, and finally, she screams.

 

* * *

 

She dreams of the island.

 

* * *

 

She wakes up hours later, her body wracked with exhaustion, her muscles sore. She’s freezing, and her chest is patched up where the syringe had gone in. Turning her head, she sees Diggle standing there apprehensively, and when she moves to sit up, she realizes one hand is cuffed to the table.

“How are you feeling?” he says offhandedly, striding away, but she takes in his rolled up sleeves, his rumpled shirt, his wan expression. She scared him.

“Like I’m battling the worst hangover of my life,” she groans as she sits up. She shakes the handcuff and adds, “Are you gonna uncuff me?”

He looks back at her warily.

“I’m not going to kill you,” she says softly. “I promise.”

He relents and unlocks the cuff, tossing her a gray hooded sweatshirt which she pulls on with a grimace. This is almost as bad as that fake motorcycle accident.

“The Count only got you with half a dose, but you still sweated out a small swimming pool coming down,” Diggle says, perching on the desk across from her.

“The Count,” she repeats groggily. “Any chance SCPD took him down?”

“No,” Diggle says, holding up the syringe, “But we did get this. You should analyze it, but maybe in a few hours. A near-drug overdose isn’t something you just walk away from.”

“Neither is Thea,” she mutters tiredly, grabbing the syringe from his hand and shuffling over to her bank of computers.

It takes her a few hours to run a full spectroanalysis of the sample, but she’s able to narrow it down to having originated in an area of the east Glades near the bay, where there’s only an abandoned juvenile detention center. She faints once or twice during the research process, and Diggle has to revive her and insists on her getting some rest, but she can’t. Thea’s trial is pending, and she needs results now. She needs The Count.

“You can’t go out there, Felicity,” Diggle says as she grabs her leathers. “You’re still suffering the after-effects of the vertigo.”

“If I don’t stop this now, it’ll become an epidemic,” she says fervently. “More than just Thea will fall victim to this drug.”

“I can stop you from leaving,” Diggle says in a dangerous voice, and Felicity straightens with a hot fury coursing through her body.

“Try.”

He smirks, but instead of trying to physically challenge her, he grabs a tennis ball and bounces it on the ground. “You hit this, and you can leave,” he says, holding it up an inch away from the side of his face.

She glowers at him, but she raises her bow and takes aim. He stands there brazenly, his eyes fixed on hers, but the tennis ball never comes into focus. She lowers her bow angrily, and Diggle gloats, “I’m glad you came to your senses.”

“You’re forgetting, Digg: I don’t need the bow.”

She sweeps out of the foundry with her leathers, leaving the bow behind.

Breaching the detention center is easy, and the hand-to-hand fighting is not as much of a challenge as the archery would’ve been, but she still stumbles around and throws wild punches as she works her way up to the room where The Count is hiding. As soon as she’s into the main room, everyone scrambles except for The Count himself, who stands on a platform proudly, his arms held wide.

“You should’ve stuck to your depraved elite!” The Count crows, crouching maniacally as he points a pistol at Felicity. “I am merely providing people with what they want! I’m providing a public service!”

“So am I,” she growls through the voice-changer, and she tosses a throwing star at him, knocking the gun out of his hand. She leaps onto the platform and punches him, hard, but he proves the old adage that crazy people are harder to overcome. He tries his trick again, swinging his arm wide to stab her with a syringe full of vertigo, but she’s ready for it this time; seizing his wrist, she twists him around and uses his own hand to plunge the syringe into his chest.

He goes rigid with surprise as she grabs him from behind and places her thumb on the depressor. “Enjoy the fruits of your labor,” she grunts into his ear, then presses down, emptying the syringe into his body.

“Freeze!”

She holds The Count up in front of her instinctively as Detective Lance comes in, his gun drawn, a joint task force following behind him. He yells for her to drop the needle, but she resists, yelling, “He deserves this!”

“Not according to the law!” Lance volleys back. “People think you’re a hero — people like my daughter — if they could see you now? You’re no hero. You’re what I always said you were: a killer.”

Baring her teeth, Felicity growls and shoves The Count at them. He falls to the floor limply, but alive, and it’s enough time for her to leap off the platform and escape to safety.

 

* * *

 

She dreams of the island again that night, vivid dreams that feel so real that she can still hear Slade’s voice when she wakes up. She shivers as she wipes away tears that must’ve fallen while she slept, then she pushes herself out of bed before her mind replays the nightmares.

Vertigo might be the perfect high for some, but for Felicity, she doesn’t want to experience it again anytime soon.

 

* * *

 

“We are on track to open in three months,” Tommy reports brightly as soon as Felicity walks in to Verdant on Monday afternoon. “The fire set us back about five weeks, since we had to get the whole second level inspected for possible structural damage, plus that maniac set the whole supply of liquor on fire.” His confident, giddy tone doesn’t match the gravity of his words, and he’s grinning down at Felicity like he’s a kid on Christmas morning.

“That’s… great news?” she asks dubiously, wondering if Tommy has scored himself some vertigo. She knows his history, but he hasn’t been in trouble in five years…

“It actually is good news!” he says enthusiastically, and she has to admit, he’s kind of irresistible when he’s like this. His eyes are alight with happiness and he seems to be radiating pure joy even as he stands in the middle of the still-charred-in-some-places club. She’s grown quite fond of Tommy in the last couple of weeks as they’ve worked together to file the correct insurance claims, rehire the framers and painters, and get the club back on track for a spring opening. Sometimes Tommy regales her with his and Oliver’s tales of youthful misconduct, somehow painting himself as an unwilling participant or a victim of Oliver’s criminal schemes. It’s clear from the way he talks about Oliver that Tommy sees him as a blood brother, while he talks about Laurel like she’s the center of his universe. He has a certain guileless optimism about him, the kind that sometimes rubs off on Felicity when her guard is down.

“The original estimate was a ten-week delay,” he continues, “but I made a few calls, I technically bribed an inspector, and I got it cut in half.”

“ _Technically_ bribed?” she repeats, narrowing her eyes as she sets her purse on the rebuilt bar. “What does that mean?”

“It means I used a little bit of the insurance money to expedite the process,” he says, his expression turning serious. “It’s not really illegal, Felicity, he said he had to check the duct work in the basement but since it’s removed from the rest of the club and inaccessible, I… financially persuaded him to skip that part.” He shrugs. “I know none of that has been updated since the seventies, so it would’ve been those extra five weeks plus the cost of HVAC work. Money well spent!”

“If you say so,” she says, keeping up the guise of disapproval even as she feels relief. Tommy had unwittingly kept the city inspector from discovering her hideout. She’s so grateful, she could kiss him right now. “You still seem way too excited about three months of continued construction, though.”

“Oh, well that’s because of the good news the Queens got today,” he says brightly. “The judge accepted Thea’s plea deal — no jail time! Isn’t that great?”

She grins as she hops onto one of the stools. “Yeah, that’s wonderful. Have you talked to Oliver?”

“Just a few minutes ago, he’s ecstatic. Thea’s working as an intern with Laurel over at CNRI now as part of her community service, and he says it’s already done wonders to change her attitude.” He slides onto the stool beside her, watching her closely. “He said after all of this, he thinks he’ll be ready to go back to work next week.”

“Oh, that’s great!” she says, unsure why Tommy’s suddenly watching her like she’s under a microscope. “I bet it’ll be weird for him to work for his mother now.”

Tommy chuckles uncomfortably. “I think they’ll be okay. But… I think he’s still a little upset about whatever you said to him the night of the fire.” His eyes snap back to hers, and at least now she knows why he’s suddenly acting so weird.

“All I told him was to take some time off, Tommy. You and Laurel had both mentioned how on edge he’d seemed after Walter…” she trails off. Somehow, just mentioning his name is still enough to bring tears to her eyes. “After he disappeared. Oliver knows he’s welcome back anytime.”

“Still, I think he’s waiting for you to give him some sort of signal,” Tommy says carefully, squinting at her a little. “He’s been different since you got back, you know. Not happier, but… more driven. I think it has something to do with you.”

Her heart thumps so loudly at these words that she’s sure Tommy can hear it. He’s being preposterous, though; there’s no way she’s transformed Oliver’s life in any significant way besides giving him a creative outlet for his business acumen. She flashes Tommy her most winning smile, even if she doesn’t feel it reaching her eyes. “Or maybe, now that he has a business to run outside of his father’s sphere of influence, you’re just now noticing that quality about him.”

She pats his arm lightly and hops off the stool, heading upstairs to check out the progress of the renovated office.

 

* * *

 

She hadn’t taken Tommy’s advice to reach out to Oliver. She figures he’s a grown man, she’s a grown woman, they are business partners, and he can contact her when he’s ready to work again. Sure enough, she gets a text from Oliver only three days later. It’s a rainy and bitterly cold Thursday afternoon, and he asks if she can meet him that evening. When she suggests meeting at Verdant, he shoots it down, requesting that they meet “somewhere discreet,” so she settles on Big Belly Burger at seven. Diggle tries to accompany her as she leaves the foundry, but she tells him to take the night off. She has nothing to fear from Oliver Queen.

Oliver keeps her waiting for twenty minutes, which is long enough for her to start worrying about the content of this meeting as she stares out at the driving rain. She hasn’t seen him in over a month, and the last time they’d talked, things hadn’t ended on the best terms. Maybe he wants to terminate their partnership, or perhaps, in Walter’s absence, Moira has sent her son to fire Felicity.

Relief spikes through her body when she sees him cross in front of the window. Until now, she hadn’t realized how worried she was by his tardiness. He spots her and offers a small wave through the window, which she returns with an indulgent smile. She hasn’t spared much thought for Oliver these last few weeks, since most of her efforts have been split between her QC work and his sister, but now she finds herself wondering if that emotional charge is still there between them, or if that had just been a fluke.

He enters the restaurant and shoves his hands into his pockets, giving her a sheepish smile that is all stubble and dimples, and yeah, that weird magnetic charge hasn’t gone away at all. If anything, it feels stronger right now as he walks over to her almost apologetically, his features softer and more apprehensive than the brooding, angry version she’d grown accustomed to lately.

“Hi,” he says quietly, so intimately that she feels tingly as his eyes meet hers.

“Hey,” she responds warmly, unable to keep a note of question out of her voice. He had been the one to call this odd meeting, and he was twenty minutes late, to boot. “What’s up?”

“Thanks for meeting me here,” he says, perching on the stool beside her. “I was… I didn’t want to do this in front of Tommy.”

“O-kay,” she says, growing bewildered.

“I, um.” He hesitates. “I came here for a specific reason, but now I’m realizing that I should probably apologize —”

“Oliver, no,” she says reassuringly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Still. I’m sorry.”

She’s never seen him so unhindered. His face is practically an open book of apprehension and doubt, but his blue eyes are bright with some kind of animation that she doesn’t quite understand. She sits there quietly, afraid to break the spell, because there’s something irresistible about Oliver when he’s like this.

“The thing is, I’ve been debating whether or not to share this with you for — for weeks,” he says in a rush, his voice pitched so low that she has to lean closer to hear him. He continues staring at her in that naked way as he asks, “Can I trust you?”

She knits her brow, frowning at him as she wonders for the first time if he’s running some kind of con.

He lets out a laugh that sounds more like an exhale as he rests his hand on the bar. “Despite what you think, I’m not an idiot. You’ve dropped some fairly ridiculous lies on me, made me an unwilling and unwitting participant in your weird little schemes, and yet…” There’s that look again. “Yet, I still feel like I can trust you.”

She feels those words wash over her like a warm summer rain as he looks at the ground and adds, “Why is that?”

And she knows she’s wandered into something dangerous here, quite on accident, but still. Her relationship with Oliver has had several defining moments, starting with the moment she decided to lie to him and ending with their argument on the sidewalk outside of their smoldering nightclub. She’d been so scared after her encounter with the Dark Archer, after Walter’s disappearance, that somewhere along the way, she’d decided, _Only Diggle_. She would defend the people she’d sworn to protect, but _only Diggle_ would be a person she let into her life.

She finds herself at an impasse, because Oliver doesn’t know it, but he’s offering her a way to reverse everything she’s done so far — the lying, the manipulating, the distance — and let him be a person she actually lets in. And if the weather had been better, if the rains hadn’t been so cold, if she hadn’t spent the last few nights dreaming of Slade and the island, then maybe she would’ve reversed her fortune. But despite the warmth that radiates from Oliver, despite his dimples and his honest eyes and the way he seems to make her feel _something_ just by being in his presence, beneath all of that, she still feels cold. She feels like a shell of a person. She still believes that island robbed her of her humanity. If there’s space in her heart, it’s filled with the kinship she feels for Diggle; there isn’t room for anything else.

So she makes her decision, tilting her head coyly as she says, “I guess I just have one of those faces.”

In an instant, all the warmth disappears. Oliver’s expression becomes shuttered, his eyes turn from a sparkly blue to a cold steel, and he looks out into the rainy street, visibly retreating in on himself. Somehow, instinctively, Felicity realizes she chose wrong. There’s something in Oliver that demands her honesty, and her tactical retreat, originally devised to keep him engaged, has only served to drive him away.

Clearing her throat, she places her hand on his. “I’m sorry.” She waits until he turns his face back to hers, his expression still wary as his eyes meet hers. “You can trust me,” she says earnestly, terrified that she’s already lost something valuable.

He contemplates her for a long moment, then purses his lips as he pulls something out of the inside pocket of his coat. “Then… I have something to show you.”

Her stomach drops like a stone as he produces a small brown leather-bound book. Initially, she thinks this _is_ some kind of con after all, that Moira had sent him with this book to suss out Felicity’s knowledge of it, but Oliver clutches it so tightly that his fingertips are white. He’s reluctant to let it go, because he’s not sure what he’s holding, and he’s still not sure he trusts her.

She raises her eyes to his, feeling numb, that magnetic charge completely gone now — or perhaps so overwhelming that she can’t feel it anymore — and realizes that he’s watching her closely. He holds the book out further, loosening his grip and waiting for her to take it. She does, feigning nonchalance far too late, because he’s noticed, and she _knows_ he’s noticed.

She flips to a random page, and right there in familiar handwriting is an exact replica of the list she knows all too well, except Frank Bertinelli and Scott Morgan do not have lines through their names in this copy.

She can’t hide her reactions, she can only hope that Oliver’s not interpreting any of her expressions correctly. As it is, he asks, “Have you seen something like this before?” which is not a question he’d be asking if he were here for Moira.

“No,” she breathes, but he notices again. He watches her intently as she gruffly asks, “Where did you get it?”

“I found it in my stepfather’s possessions,” he says quietly.

“From Walter,” she croaks, nodding as she fights tears. “And… where do you think he got it?”

“From my mother.” He says it darkly, so darkly that it startles her into looking up. There’s that fury she remembers, but it’s quiet now, controlled, as he continues to stare at her. “She had this special heirloom box that my dad’s mother gave her when they married. When I was a kid, I found the box hidden in my mother’s armoire, and I opened the box to find copies of mine and Thea’s birth certificates and a diamond necklace that had belonged to my grandmother. When I asked her about it, my mom said she keeps only her most prized possessions in that box.”

He pauses, struggling to control his emotions as his eyes bore into hers. “I found that box in Walter’s safe, and this book was inside.”

“Why are you bringing it to me?” she asks.

“You’re the smartest person I know, Felicity. I was wondering if you could make sense of this.”

“What makes you think there’s anything to figure out here?” she asks gently. “Maybe that’s all it is: a list.”

“Because I think… I think this list cost Walter his life,” he says, blinking back tears of his own. “Doug Miller was VP of Research and he was on this list. He died the day Walter went missing. Seven other people who were on this list were killed before he went missing, and three more since then.”

Swallowing hard, she asks a question she already knows the answer to: “And Walter is on this list?”

“No,” Oliver says sadly. “I think he’s gone because he _had_ the list.”


	9. i hate everything you stand for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity crashes in through the window, sending shattered glass everywhere, and immediately takes out the two bodyguards as the businessmen go running through the conference room toward the stairwell. Moira, trapped behind her desk, presses herself against the credenza in abject terror as Felicity draws back her bow.
> 
> “Moira Queen, you have failed this city!” Felicity growls.

“So this book contains a list of the names of the guys you’ve been hunting.”

If she hadn’t just handed it to him, Felicity might have thought Diggle was holding up her old, battle-weary copy of The List. “It’s identical,” she says succinctly.

“Where did Moira Queen get a copy of it? And more importantly, how did _you_ get it?” he asks, leaning against the metal desk and crossing his arms.

“From Oliver Queen. He found it in Walter Steele’s safe.”

“Walter. Who’s now missing.” _And presumed dead_ , but Diggle doesn’t say it out loud.

“Moira is under my protection, Diggle,” she says carefully. “And I don’t think she’s the kind of person who would —”

“Have her husband disappeared? Because that’s really the question, isn’t it? Have you ever even spoken to the woman?”

Her lack of a response is answer enough for Diggle, who throws his arms wide, incensed. “Look, I know that family is under your protection, but I tend to think the innocent party is the one who’s missing… or presumed dead.”

“What do you suggest?” she asks icily. “I can’t exactly waltz into her office and ask her about this book.”

“Not as Felicity Smoak, no,” Diggle says, his tone turning sarcastic as he adds, “If only there were a way to question her while concealing your identity…”

“No,” she snaps. “We’ll figure something else out. I’m not holding Moira Queen at arrow point and questioning her under duress.”

“If this were anybody else —”

“But it’s _not_ anyone else, it’s Moira, so I’m not doing it,” she says loudly, and it shuts him up, which is good because her phone buzzes. It’s Laurel, calling from the burner phone.

“I need your help,” Laurel says with quiet urgency as soon as Felicity picks up. “Cyrus Vanch was just released from prison on a technicality. He’s living large in his dead lawyer’s house; there’s no evidence of foul play.”

“What about the police?”

“They can’t move on him without evidence of criminal activity—”

Felicity pinches the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. “Laurel, obtaining evidence is not what I do.”

“Vanch is dangerous!” Laurel says roughly, yet still in a hushed tone.

Heaving a deep sigh, Felicity turns her eyes skyward, then dolefully mutters, “Keep the phone close by.”

“I know what you’re doing —” Diggle starts sanctimoniously as she hangs up the phone.

“Yeah, I’m trying to save this city. Until five minutes ago, I thought you wanted to do that, too.”

 

* * *

 

Vanch’s swanky new blood pad is heavily guarded, and Felicity has to take out a fair few of his guards before she can send a transmitter arrow into a column behind Vanch’s vantage point on the back patio. She activates the transmitter to listen in on his plans as she takes cover behind a tree, but another guard takes her by surprise and manages to shoot six rapid-fire shots into the air before she can take him out. It effectively gives her away, and she watches as Vanch discovers the arrow and yanks it out of the column.

“Do you know what I learned in prison?” Vanch says conversationally to his pretty blonde companion. “If you want to be respected, you find the biggest guy and put him down, permanent.” He holds up the arrow. “I think I just found the biggest guy.”

Scowling, Felicity turns and sprints away, already forming another plan in her mind.

 

* * *

 

She calls Laurel and asks her to meet on a rooftop of a downtown building in half an hour. It’s raining when she gets there, and Felicity makes sure she keeps her face in shadow and her shoulders squared to give herself a more dominating presence.

“Thank you for helping,” Laurel says gratefully.

“I didn’t get much, but I got this,” Felicity says in her deep, modified voice as she hands over the transmitter. “Vanch aims to take over the positions vacated by Frank Bertinelli and —”

She stops, her heart thumping loudly at a nearby clang of metal. She listens intently, but she can only hear the sound of the rain, so she continues, “and the Triad.”

“What’s wrong?” Laurel asks.

Felicity answers slowly, quietly, “We’re not alone.”

It alarms Laurel, who gasps, “What?” just as the door behind her flies open. Detective Lance comes bursting out, his handgun pointed right at Felicity, and she dives for Laurel, pulling her up as a shield just as she had done with The Count.

Lance is barking out orders, advancing slowly as Laurel yelps, “Dad!”

“You so much as leave a bruise on her and I swear, I will drag you down to hell myself!” Lance snarls.

But Felicity has never had any intention of harming his daughter. “I’m sorry,” she mutters to Laurel, then shoves the bewildered woman forward as she rolls backwards off the edge of the roof.

She lands two floors down, onto greenspace, and sprints across the expanse into a stairwell. Pounding footsteps alert her to Lance’s pursuit, so she swings up onto a metal beam and ambushes Lance as soon as he enters the stairwell. He only has time to turn around before Felicity punches him square in the jaw, channeling more than a little bit of fury at the man for using his daughter as bait, and it sends the detective sprawling to the ground.

 

* * *

 

“Laurel could’ve been hurt or worse!” Felicity says furiously as she slams her bow into her trunk.

Diggle’s arms are crossed once more as he stands behind her. “And I suppose that’s Lance’s fault.”

“What are you implying?”

“That you don’t really see straight when it comes to the people who fall under your protection.”

“This is not the time to bring this up again!” Felicity yells, really losing her temper now, and Diggle holds up his hands in surrender.

“Okay. Okay. But there’s something I need to tell you, and it’s better that I tell you now: I tailed Moira tonight.”

Felicity sighs in frustration. “You’re spying on her?”

“Doing my due diligence, seeing if she meets anyone we’d be interested in,” Diggle corrects her.

“She’s not a suspect, Diggle!”

“Because you won’t make her one! That’s why someone needs to take a closer, objective look at her.”

Felicity slams her palms down on the desk angrily, but Diggle won’t be deterred.

“What is it about this woman that makes you not want to pursue this? You’ve never met her, you know no loyalty to her, what is it? Are you that frightened of her?”

“Watch it,” Felicity says through clenched teeth. “She’s under my protection. She’s not involved.”

Diggle smirks, then grabs his coat and folds it neatly over his arm. “Then there’s no harm in me tailing her for a few more days, is there?”

 

* * *

 

The botched attempt to capture the vigilante is all over the news as Felicity devours a bagel the next morning. The Hood Guy is now being described as “armed and dangerous,” which means she’s officially at war with the SCPD now.

She has to go to Verdant to check on the progress of the club, now that the grand re-opening is fast approaching. She hasn’t seen Oliver since the night he gave her the book, and she knows he returned to work at the club the next day, so she’s depending on his upper-class etiquette to pretend nothing had changed between them.

She sees Tommy behind the bar as soon as she walks in, but he doesn’t return her greeting with his usual cheer. In fact, he’s glowering as he works on hooking up the new beer taps, and Felicity gives Oliver a questioning look as he approaches the bar from the storage room, two crates in his arms.

“Hey,” he says, and her hope that nothing had changed between them is dashed as he gives her an apprehensive smile.

“Hi. You said I had papers to sign. I’m here. To sign the papers.” Oh God. _Babbling_. And here she thought the island had robbed her of her old personality. No, just put a pretty blue-eyed boy with bulging biceps in front of her and she’s suddenly eighteen years old again.

He flashes a dimpled smile at her as he sets the crates down behind the bar. “Right. Over here.” He gestures to one of the bar tables which is covered in papers, and she follows him over, wringing her hands anxiously.

Sure enough, as soon as they’re out of earshot, Oliver drops his voice and says, “Hey, so—”

“What’s going on with Tommy?” she cuts across him pointedly, keeping her eyes on the papers as she shuffles through them. “He doesn’t seem like himself.”

“He and Laurel are fighting,” Oliver says after a confused beat.

“Oh?”

“Felicity —”

“Does Tommy stay in these moods for long when they fight? Do we need to start interviewing for a replacement assistant manager?”

“They’ve never fought like this, so I don’t know,” Oliver replies, clearly frustrated. “He just found out that she’s been working with the vigilante.”

“She’s still doing that?” Felicity asks in surprise.

“Yeah, apparently she was involved in that attempt to catch him the other night,” Oliver says hurriedly, as if none of this is interesting to him. “I guess we aren’t going to talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You know something.” There’s nothing accusatory in his voice, but Felicity’s still refusing to look at him, so she can’t read his expression. “I’ve had time to think about it, and you knew what that book was as soon as I held it up.”

“I didn’t.”

“And you’re a terrible liar.”

_Only with you_. The words spring into her mind unbidden, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut to will them away. She takes a deep breath, trying to fill her lungs with self-righteousness that she doesn’t actually feel.

“Oliver, I’ve been over that book cover to cover. Besides the names you mentioned, there’s nothing in that book that would indicate that it had led to Walter’s disappearance.”

“Its _existence_ led to his disappearance,” Oliver argues, glaring right into her eyes.

“You don’t know that.” She drops her gaze back down to the papers, scribbling her name on contracts and documents without reading them through.

“You’re lying to me. And the more you lie to me, the more I think you had something to do with it, too.”

She’s so shocked at the accusation that she whips her head back up, tears springing to her eyes. “No, Oliver. I didn’t. I want Walter back as much as you do — maybe even more, because while you have a family to go home to, a family you suspect of conspiracies and murder, I _only_ had Walter.”

He stares at her with wide eyes, his head bent down remorsefully as his hand comes up to cup his mouth. They stand in painful silence for eons with only the occasional curse from Tommy punctuating their shared grief. She looks away, unable to bear his sympathy, and continues scribbling her name in increasingly illegible writing. She's already regretting her outburst of raw emotion. 

“I… didn’t know that,” he says finally, his voice cracking on the last word.

She flips through the papers, having run out of lines to sign now. She pretends to read through the contracts, but if she’s being honest, this is the first time since the island that she’s felt so exposed around someone other than Diggle. Not even Walter, the man she grieves for so deeply, had seen her this distressed.

“Well,” she says in a choked voice. “Now you do.”

“Felicity —” he starts contritely, but she puts her hand up to stop him.

“Oliver, you don’t owe me anything.”

“I do,” he says beseechingly, his tone turning coaxing in a way that would have melted her if she weren’t so rattled. “We’re business partners. We have to trust each other.”

“In business,” she returns shortly. “And I trust you in business. As for personal matters… maybe they should stay just that.” She gathers up the papers in a neat stack and taps them against the table with finality. “Our personal business.”

She walks away without allowing him a chance to argue, and she hopes it gives her the illusion of power, because in reality, she’s doing it so that he doesn’t see her cry.

 

* * *

 

After work that night, Felicity enters the basement through the side entrance, and she’s a little surprised to see Diggle sitting at the desk, his head in his hands.

“Digg? Done tailing Moira Queen already?”

He lifts his head, and Felicity feels a prickle of dread as she takes in his devastated expression. “What’s wrong?”

He holds up a small transmitter, much like the one she’d used on Vanch a few nights ago, except this one isn’t attached to an arrow.

“You bugged her?” she asks in a dangerous voice.

But Diggle doesn’t defend himself. Whatever’s happening, it’s shaken him to his core. “Just listen,” he says gravely, still holding out the transmitter, and Felicity takes it with trepidation.

_“It’s taken care of. I’ve taken care of it! … will not be a problem anymore!”_

The voice, probably so familiar to Oliver, sounds tinny and alarmed on the staticky transmitter. Still, it’s unmistakably Moira Queen; Felicity’s heard her voice on countless interviews from her research of the last five years. The other voice, presumably a male voice, is garbled almost to the point of being indistinguishable, but she’s able to make out key phrases such as “propensity for squeamishness.”

Moira’s tone is edgy as she replies, _“I made it clear to him persuasively that his plans endanger the Undertaking. I didn’t have to make the usual threats.”_

Felicity’s stomach turns over as the garbled voice directs Moira to dispose of the contents at a certain address, _“Where you’re storing the remains of the Queen’s Gambit.”_ She looks up at Diggle, horrified, because she thinks she knows exactly which warehouse the voice is referring to, but Moira’s answer makes her blood run cold.

_“I already told you. I knew Robert’s yacht was sabotaged.”_

The recording ends, and the transmitter shuts off with a high-pitched beep as Felicity struggles to take it all in. Her voice is choked as she asks, “The yacht was sabotaged?”

“I’m sorry, Felicity.” He's genuine, but it means nothing to her.

“Robert Queen was murdered?” She can’t comprehend it.

“And his wife was somehow involved.”

“That is still not a certainty, Diggle!” she snaps.

“She kept this a secret,” Diggle says firmly. “Why would she do that if she didn’t have something to hide?”

Felicity chokes back sobs, trying to make sense of it all. It doesn’t jive with her beliefs, that this was a family that meant so much to Robert that he’d killed himself for them. Was it all for nothing? Had he shot himself in the head for a wife who had sent him to his watery grave in the first place?

Did he know? Did he figure out he was supposed to die as soon as the boat sank? Is that why he shot himself, why he begged Felicity to survive and protect his family?

Her phone buzzes, and she seethes as the number for Lance’s burner phone glows on her screen. She accepts the call and growls, “You have three seconds before I have this line permanently disconnected!”

“It’s Laurel, she’s been kidnapped. Listen, whoever this is — he’s gonna kill my daughter. Please believe me.” Lance sounds anguished and near hysterics, and Felicity never thought she'd hear the day that he'd be begging the vigilante for help. 

“Meet me in ten minutes. You know which rooftop,” she says menacingly, then hangs up the phone.

“What are you doing, where are you going?” Diggle asks loudly as she grabs her gear. “Felicity, we need to figure this out —”

“Laurel’s been kidnapped, and the way I see it, she might be the only person deserving of my protection right now,” Felicity snaps. “We’ll figure this out later!”

Lance knew exactly which rooftop — the one where he’d used his own daughter as bait to try to catch Felicity only a few nights ago. “Detective, if this is another trick, you will not like the consequences!” Felicity warns.

But she’d known from his voice on the call that this wasn’t a ruse. “I’m not particularly happy right now!” Quentin snaps, his breath coming out in bursts of fog in the relentless cold rain. “I hate you. I hate everything you stand for. But this lunatic, he’s got my little girl. He left this behind as some kind of ransom note!” He holds out the transmitter arrow; Felicity feels a pang of guilt as she looks at it sidelong.

“His name is Cyrus Vanch.”

“Jesus.” Quentin’s arm drops back to his side. “He’ll kill her if he doesn’t get you.”

“He’ll kill her anyway,” Felicity replies. “So why come to me?”

“There’s a pretty tight circle at the precinct who knows about my daughter’s connection to you,” Lance says quickly. “If Vanch knows, it’s because someone talked. There isn’t anybody else I can trust.”

There was never a question of whether Felicity was going to rescue Laurel; the only question was how. So she explains the layout of the mansion and Vanch’s heavy fortifications, and adds, “I can’t take it by myself.”

“I need your help!” Lance says desperately.

“Then I need yours.”

 

* * *

 

She works methodically around the perimeter of the house, taking out the guards on the grounds, then the sharpshooters, then the men stationed at every entrance to the house. She works as quietly as possible, but it still involves a couple of explosions and some gunfire from the men as they fall to the ground.

She runs out of arrows as soon as she gets into the house. Another guard points a shotgun at her, and he marches her into the room where Vanch and his blonde companion are sitting with a bound and tear-streaked Laurel. She looks a little worse for wear, but Felicity sees no broken bones or blood.

“Lose the bow, Merida,” Vanch says, and Felicity allows herself a small grin as she lowers it to the ground. Merida is an insult, is it? As soon as she straightens, Vanch tells his guard, “Ventilate him.”

Felicity waits, poised and unafraid, and blinks at the single gunshot from behind her. The guard crumples to the ground as Laurel jumps and then ducks her head.

The blonde comes at Felicity as Lance charges into the room, and Felicity disables her handily.

“My daughter?” Lance is screaming, running at Vanch with his gun pointed between the kidnapper’s eyes. “My little girl?!”

Felicity reacts on instinct as soon as she sees Lance’s finger squeezing the trigger; she throws one of her blades at him, knocking the gun from his hand right as it fires. Lance stares at his empty hands in shock as Vanch checks his torso for bullet wounds.

“I’m the vigilante,” Felicity growls. “You’re the cop!”

Lance snarls. “Doesn’t mean I have to read him his rights!” And he punches Vanch in the face, incapacitating him as Felicity takes off running.

 

* * *

 

She crouches between police cruisers hours later, waiting for Laurel to be released from the police station. Felicity expects her to be accompanied by her dad, so she’s surprised to see Laurel emerge alone. She steps out of the shadows and blocks Laurel’s path, and Laurel stops with a small gasp. “Are you all right?” Felicity asks quietly, holding her bow loosely at her side.

“What would you think if I said I didn’t know?” Laurel asks, hugging herself tightly.

“That you were being honest.”

“My father has the phone now. I don’t think he’ll be giving it back anytime soon.” She sounds remorseful, even after her brush with death tonight.

“Maybe that’s good,” Felicity says quietly. “Maybe involving you was a bad idea.”

“What? What does that mean?” Laurel asks, agitated.

“It means goodbye.”

“Laurel!”

Felicity melts into the shadows at the sound of Tommy’s panicked voice, and she ducks around the cars and scales the nearby building before Laurel even realizes she’s gone. She watches from the rooftop as Tommy hugs his girlfriend gratefully.

“We’re done working with Laurel,” she tells Diggle as soon as she gets back to the foundry. “I can’t protect her and involve her in these dangerous missions.”

“That’s good, Felicity,” Diggle says, his expression clearing. “She’s a bit of a blind spot. Along with…”

She follows his gaze to the transmitter, which is sitting on the table in front of her sharpened arrows. Slowly, deliberately, she sinks down onto the stool and presses play on the transmitter, listening to the recording all the way through.

“What’s the Undertaking?” Diggle asks after she listens to it five or six times.

“I don’t know. But with all this talk about threats, it can’t be good.” She takes a deep breath. “I need to find out what it is.” She stands up and starts reloading her empty quiver with arrows.

“What are you gonna do?” Diggle asks.

“I’m gonna have a chat with Moira Queen.” She shoulders her quiver and flashes Diggle a sardonic smile. “Under duress.”

 

* * *

 

She’s working late; Felicity knows this, because Moira works late a lot, just like Walter always did. Being the CEO of a mega corporation doesn’t lend itself to forty-hour work weeks, and Moira is still at her desk at ten o’clock that night, meeting with two men as their bodyguards stand behind them.

Felicity crashes in through the window, sending shattered glass everywhere, and immediately takes out the two bodyguards as the businessmen go running through the conference room toward the stairwell. Moira, trapped behind her desk, presses herself against the credenza in abject terror as Felicity draws back her bow.

“Moira Queen, you have failed this city!” Felicity growls.

Moira hesitates only a second before she dives for something under her desk, and Felicity lets an arrow fly. It buries itself in the desktop only inches from Moira’s hand, and she jumps back once more. “Stand still!”

“Please don’t kill me!” Moira says breathlessly.

“Do you know anything about your husband’s disappearance?” Felicity asks clearly.

“Wha—?”

“Is Walter Steele still alive?” she thunders, and Moira flinches.

“I don’t — know where my husband is,” she says, and her hands shake as she presses back against the credenza once more. “I swear!”

“Do you know anything about the Undertaking?” Felicity growls, stepping closer, but Moira shakes her head and spins around. “I said don’t move!”

But Moira doesn’t have a weapon; she has a framed photo. “I am a mother!” she cries, sinking to her knees and holding up the frame in front of her face. “I have a son, O—Oliver. A daughter,” her voice breaks. “Her name is Thea! She’s just a teenager, please—please don’t take me from my children!”

And for the first time since she’s started this crusade, Felicity finds herself sympathizing with her victim. In the photo, Oliver has his arm looped around his little sister, and they’re both grinning at the camera.

“Please!” Moira repeats. “They already lost their father and their stepfather. They can’t lose me too. Please, whoever you are, please!”

Felicity lowers her bow an inch, then drops it down to her side. “Okay,” she says softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Moira lowers the frame in relief, and then before Felicity really registers what she’s doing, she spins back to the credenza and grabs something that catches the light of one of the lamps. Turning back, Moira aims wildly with her eyes shut, and Felicity hears the gunshot as she ducks instinctively. She feels a bullet rip through her shoulder as she hits the ground.

There’s nothing for it; she scrambles out of the office on her hands and knees as Moira takes cover under her desk.

She’s lost a considerable amount of blood by the time she makes it down to the parking garage. She’d left her walkie with Diggle, not expecting to need backup, and her phone has no service down here. She glances around, her vision going slightly blurry around the edges as she takes in the mostly deserted garage.

Then her eyes land on a Mercedes. A very familiar, shiny, brand-new Mercedes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have been doing this all along, but I really want to thank everyone who is taking the time to read this, give it kudos, and post comments. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU. I'm still fairly terrified of the whole writing process so the support and feedback is an amazing boost to my confidence.


	10. there are always casualties when you're fighting a war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver glances around the dank basement, which smells of mildew and has that unpleasant dampness that all basements have, and he doesn’t see a life worth living. He sees survival. He sees emptiness. He sees blood and death dressed up in green.

Oliver Queen has always believed the best in people.

It’s not a quality he inherited from his mother, who looks at people as threats or pawns. In fact, the older he gets, the more he thinks he got that particular outlook from his father. Robert was a self-made man who built his own company from the ground up, and while that required a certain level of ruthlessness, it also meant that he had to believe the best in the people he put in positions of power.

In the five years since he lost his father, Oliver often feels like some of his own compassion is slipping away in the grief and absence of optimism.

As it is, Oliver often finds himself consumed with thoughts of Felicity Smoak. Normally he would believe she’s a warrior, a survivor who came back from a situation that his own father couldn’t endure. He would believe she was worth celebrating.

But the intervening months since her return have made Oliver very suspicious and even doubtful of Ms. Smoak’s true nature. She’s all smiles and secrets. She’s all openness and lies. She’s the opposite of his mother, except for the fact that they’re exactly the same.

And despite all of his evidence to the contrary — despite the deceit and the accusations that swirl around Felicity like a poisoned aura — he still trusts her. There’s something about her that makes him believe she is good, in spite of her best efforts to make herself look bad.

Oliver is not thinking of Felicity Smoak as he steps off the elevator and into the nearly empty parking garage of the Queen Consolidated building that night. He had just entertained some investors for much longer than he’d intended, and had finally handed them off to his mother half an hour ago. He’d finalized some paperwork and shut down his computer, then he’d stopped on the seventh floor to drop off some contracts and chat with one of the guys from legal.

He has no sense that anything is amiss inside the building, or that his mother has just been attacked by the vigilante. The only things on his mind are a dry-aged New York strip waiting for him at home, and the sweet comfort of his bed after this long day.

If he were paying closer attention, he would’ve noticed that his car didn’t beep when he unlocked it.

He slides into the driver’s seat and shuts the door, waiting as the car starts from the keyless ignition. He puts his briefcase in the passengers seat and then checks his mirror just as he hears a small, almost inaudible grunt.

He whirls around and lets out something between a startled gasp and a yelp as he takes in the moving green mass sprawled across his backseat.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Oliver!” the mass gasps, clearly in some considerable pain even as the voice issues from some kind of electronic voice modifier.

“How do you know my name?” Oliver asks with dawning horror as he realizes this must be the infamous Starling City vigilante.

He hears a beep as the mass shifts once more, and then a hand comes up and a face emerges from the shadows.

“Because you know my name.”

Felicity Smoak, sweaty and streaked with some kind of green paint, lay gasping in the backseat of his car… bleeding. Everywhere.

“Wha… Felicity. Oh. My God.” All of the pieces slide into place, and he feels both idiotic and vindicated about everything he’s ever sensed about her. “You can’t be the Hood,” he breathes, shocked. “The Hood is a m—”

“Man?” Felicity gasps, somehow annoyed with him even as she bleeds out. “That’s very progressive of you, Oliver.”

“I was going to say ‘murderer,’” Oliver says defensively. “Which, on the balance, I _think_ is the bigger insult.”

“That’s because you don’t deal with sexism every day,” she grumbles as her arm collapses underneath her.

“Okay, you’re bleeding a lot. I have to get you to a hospital.” He puts his car in reverse.

“No! Verdant,” she says faintly. “Take me to Verdant.”

“The nightclub?” he asks incredulously. “How much blood have you lost? That’s not a hospital!”

“Oliver!” she entreats him, her hand coming up to grasp his bicep. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll take me to Verdant.”

And God help him — because she’s doing that thing again where he knows she’s hiding something but he trusts her anyway — he nods once and says, “I promise.”

She collapses then, falling onto the backseat and gasping shallowly, like she can’t get air to her lungs. He’s spurred by a sudden sense of urgency as he speeds out of the garage.

She fades in and out of consciousness on the ride to the Glades, and twice he considers ignoring her demands and taking her to a hospital, but that would take a lot of explaining that he’s just not equipped to do. She’s made it this far without being exposed, so he has to trust that she knows what she’s doing even with the considerable blood loss.

“Alley entrance,” she gasps as he pulls up to Verdant. “Code is 141. Oliver. Tell Digg I — I said —”

“Hey, I got you,” he says soothingly, jumping out to scoop her out of the backseat. She’s lost a lot more blood than he’d realized, her skin is slick with it, and as soon as he’s got her cradled in his arms, she faints away.

He hurries down the darkened alley and finds the only door, a door so nondescript that it’s almost indistinguishable from the wall around it. He punches in the code on the keypad and it unlocks the door, which he pulls open awkwardly, feeling his grip slipping on the tiny blonde in his arms.

He hurries toward the only source of light in the basement, a much bigger area than he’d ever appreciated from the blueprints of the foundry. She must’ve modified them somehow. Tables and desks are arranged in a crude rectangle, and at one of the metal tables, a large man sits with his back to Oliver, staring at three computer screens, two of which are streaming the local news. He doesn’t appear to have heard Oliver enter.

“Excuse me,” Oliver says, his grip slipping even more. He nearly drops her when the bodyguard — he thinks she called him “Digg” — spins around and points a handgun right at Oliver’s forehead. He braces for the shot, but the man’s face falls as his eyes land on the unconscious blonde in his arms. “Can you help me?” Oliver asks, deeply confused by his surroundings and the bodyguard’s alarmed reaction.

Digg reholsters his weapon and rushes to the other side of the room, where he unceremoniously brushes a bunch of papers and equipment from a rolling metal table. Pushing it to the center of the room, he gestures for Oliver to place Felicity on the tabletop as he drags over another piece of equipment — it looks like one of those hospital shock things that restarts people’s hearts. Digg roots around in the metal drawers and produces some gauze, which he presses into Oliver’s hand just before he whips off Felicity’s green hood and removes her long-sleeved leather top.

And somehow, even though he’s known for the last twenty minutes that the vigilante was a woman all along, a woman that he knew to be a survivor of a castaway situation, Oliver is still not prepared for the sight of her near-naked torso. Her bra is soaked in her blood, and the bullet would, which is still flowing freely, is situated just above a crude, star-shaped tattoo that’s been etched over her heart. All of that is nothing compared to the substantial scarring on the rest of her torso: the jagged scars of knife wounds, the burn scars that start on her hip and appear to wrap around her back… He’d known she’d been through hell and back, but somehow, he’d never considered the physical toll it must’ve taken on her.

And how did she get tattoos on a deserted island?

“Damn,” Digg mutters under his breath, clearly accustomed to the sight of Felicity’s battle scars. “It’s a zone two wound. Press down here,” he says, grabbing Oliver’s wrist and pressing his gauze-bearing palm against her bullet wound.

“I should’ve taken her to a hospital!” Oliver says frantically as the gauze immediately soaks in blood.

“No. She asked you to bring her here, because the police would’ve wanted to know why and how she got that wound.”

“I’m guessing ‘how’ and ‘why’ are Felicity Smoak’s least favorite questions,” he says dryly, his eyes on her unresponsive face.

“Yeah, well, she’s also not too fond of ‘when’ or ‘where.’” Digg bustles around, grabbing medical equipment from the cart as he pulls on rubber gloves. Finally, he opens a bottom drawer and produces a bag of blood.

“Is that… hers?” Oliver gasps, his stomach heaving.

“Yeah. She stored it for a rainy day and I’d say that right now, it’s pouring.”

Oliver’s breathing shallowly as Digg moves him around to the other side of the table, instructing him to put on gloves as well. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks as his hands shake uncontrollably.

“I have some medical training from the Army. I just hope it’s enough.”

It’s overwhelming for Oliver, who had just been thinking of dinner and bed only half an hour ago. Now he’s stumbled into the heady underworld of vigilantism, which somehow includes rainy-day bags of blood, more sharp objects than he’s ever seen in his life, and an eerily composed yet clearly worried bodyguard with a military background.

He pauses and tries to take a deep breath, but it feels like his ribs are clamped down on his lungs. He recognizes the beginnings of a panic attack — he had his fair few during rehab — but Digg’s watching him closely.

“Hey, Oliver, listen,” he says, leaning across Felicity’s body to look Oliver in the eyes. “She’ll be fine. She’s been through a lot worse than this. Trust me.”

“Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel better,” Oliver says curtly, casting a dark look at the knife wound on her ribcage.

“It should,” Digg replies composedly. “Press here.”

They work in quiet unison, with Digg doing most of the work while Oliver assists. He tries not to look at Felicity’s face too much; now that they’re digging into her wound, her eyes occasionally flutter, or she lets out a grunt of pain that both men react to with chagrin. At one point, Oliver wonders if Felicity is dreaming.

He’s able to appreciate her raw strength even as she lay there motionless. Her slender frame, which should’ve just lent itself to a short but lithe body, is corded with muscles. This is a woman who has purposefully passed herself off as a man for months, who has everyone from the city’s most notorious drug pushers to the police believing she’s some justice-minded man who is good with a bow. He wonders how she did it, how she got this bodyguard on her side, how she earned his implicit trust in something that can only be described as a crusade.

Finally, Digg is finishing up the crude stitching on the jagged bullet wound on her shoulder, which runs about three inches long, and Oliver says, “Good job. I think.”

“Her heart rate is elevated, but at least the bleeding stopped,” Digg says tensely. “Thanks for your help. You kept your head on.”

He sounds surprised, and Oliver glances up at the imposing man warily. They’d worked seamlessly, trusting each other as they stitched up the woman laying between them, and Oliver never once stopped to question whether he should trust Digg — or even Felicity, for that matter — or why Digg actually trusted _him_.

“Yeah. Well. I always wondered how I’d react if I found someone shot and bleeding in my car.”

Digg grins at him, ever watchful as Oliver peels off his gloves and wanders over to the table of arrows. The bodyguard wipes his hands and remarks, “I was thinking this would be more of a shock for you.”

Oliver looks at the man again. “She called you ‘Digg’ right before she passed out. Is that your name?”

“John Diggle.”

“Well, Diggle, all I can say is that when I found her bleeding in my backseat… suddenly everything about her made sense.” He pauses, running a finger over the shaft of one of the arrows thoughtfully. “Except for the reason she came to me at all.”

And he’s not just talking about tonight. She sought him out for the Restin case, and for the nightclub. He’s watching Diggle now, who is much better at lying to him than Felicity ever was… but he’s still lying when he says, “I guess she trusts you.”

“Mmm.” He spots the little brown book he’d given her weeks ago, sitting on another table with what looked like science equipment. “It’s something to do with that book, isn’t it? That list of names. That’s why she attacked my mom tonight.”

Diggle can’t hide his surprise at this declaration. “How—?”

“You were watching the news when I came in with her,” Oliver says ruefully. “I heard. She must think my mom is involved, somehow.”

“She has her secrets, Oliver, even from me,” Diggle says, and he’s pretty convincing. “If you want to ask her these questions, you’ll have to wait for her to wake up.”

 

* * *

 

So he waits.

He should go home, he knows this, because his mother is there and terrified and wondering where he is. He ignores six calls from her and three calls from Thea before he turns his phone off altogether. Until he gets some answers, he can’t bear to face his mother and let her lie to him.

He and Diggle sit in watchful silence, their eyes moving from the computer screens, still streaming coverage of the attack at QC, to Felicity when she occasionally twitches. At one point, Oliver asks Diggle if she’s dreaming. “Nightmares,” Diggle says curtly, and Oliver drops the subject.

Around two in the morning, Felicity starts seizing. Her body arches off the table as her legs kick out in every direction, and the heart rate machine beeps urgently, indicating something is wrong.

“What’s happening?” Oliver asks in alarm, dashing to the table along with Diggle.

“There’s a syringe labeled ‘Ativan,’ it should stop the seizure!” Diggle barks as he holds Felicity down by her shoulders to keep her from thrashing off the table. Oliver’s just wrenched open the drawer of syringes when the machine switches to one, continuous beep — she’s flatlined.

“Her heart stopped,” Diggle says, his eyes wide and horrified as Felicity lay still on the table.

“I’m calling an ambulance!” Oliver yells, but Diggle dashes to the medical machine and grabs two paddles.

“No. You can’t.”

“You know how to use one of those?”

“We’re about to find out,” Diggle says grimly. He places the paddles on Felicity’s torso as Oliver takes a step back. They listen for the charge, and then Felicity’s body arches off the table as the electricity surges through her. It doesn’t work.

“Try again!” Oliver barks frantically, but Diggle’s just waiting for the charge. He places the paddles again, and again, Felicity’s body arches, but this time, the beep breaks, and her heart rate restores on the monitor.

They both let out long exhales. “What do we do now?” Oliver asks quietly as Diggle puts the paddles back on the machine.

“Pray we don’t have heart attacks ourselves,” Diggle says, clearly coming to his wits end. “She’s less stressful when she’s jumping off of rooftops!”

Oliver runs his hands through his hair, wandering away from her once more and coming to stand at the green trunk on a far table. Digg had tossed Felicity’s bow there unceremoniously as they’d worked to patch her up, but now Oliver picks it up and stares at wondrously.

“This bow. It’s put arrows in quite a few people.”

Diggle’s still on the other side of Felicity’s unconscious form as he nods. “Bad people.”

“People on that list.”

Diggle doesn’t answer.

“Is that something I’ll have to wait to ask her, too?” Oliver asks, putting the bow back on the trunk. “If she’s doing this for the right reasons?”

Diggle smiles humorlessly, like he’s asked himself this question a thousand times. “When I was in Afghanistan, I’d been assigned to protect this warlord. Real detestable man, lots of blood on his hands. When we were moving into Mozul, my convoy was ambushed by insurgents. The fight didn’t last more than a minute. They were all dead, but I knew which one I had killed. He was a kid, no more than eighteen. I killed this kid to protect this piece of garbage, and I thought, ‘Am I still good? Am I still a good man?’”

Oliver looks away, perturbed, realizing now more than ever that his life has been charmed and sheltered. He feels small next to this soldier.

“Doing this with Felicity, now, doing what we do? I feel good again. For the first time in a long time.”

Oliver thinks of his friends, of their families who have been killed or threatened by the woman laying on this table. They were people he’d grown up with — Scott Morgan had been like an uncle to him, Adam Hunt always attended their Christmas parties — and for some reason, Felicity had taken it upon herself to be judge and jury for all of them. “That’s worth the collateral damage?” he asks finally, standing up straighter.

“I haven’t killed anyone, if that’s what you’re asking,” Diggle says mildly.

“But she has.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Queen, there are always casualties when you’re fighting a war.”

 

* * *

 

It’s almost daybreak when her eyes flutter open.

Despite the hours of wondering and doubting her sanity, Oliver can’t help but let out a nervous and relieved laugh when Felicity turns and focuses on him. Diggle walks up behind him, similarly relieved, and her eyes slide to her partner as she breaks into a tight smile. “Well, I guess I didn’t die. Cool.”

Diggle shakes his head in exasperation, but he’s still grinning as he moves away. Oliver still stands there, just smiling and taking in the sight of her, awake and alive.

She sits up as Diggle hands her a small mirror, and she examines the handiwork and proclaims it “Not bad.” She pulls on a hooded gray sweatshirt as Oliver sinks into the desk chair, exhausted. “So,” she asks Diggle, “How do I explain this one?”

“Hickey gone wrong?” Diggle deadpans, and she rolls her eyes. It takes Oliver a second to work out that they’re creating a cover story, and he finds himself wondering how often they’ve had to do this.

“That motorcycle accident!” Oliver yelps before thinking. Both Felicity and Diggle turn their heads to gaze at him. “Sorry — Walter left our Christmas party because you’d been in an accident. But it wasn’t an accident, was it?”

Felicity glances at Diggle, then turns her eyes to the ground.

“You were the last person to see him before he…” he trails off, suspicious once more.

“No, the person that abducted him was the last one to see him,” Felicity corrects gently. “I never lied to you about Walter, Oliver. He was the closest thing I had to family when I came back.”

“But you lied to me about almost everything else.”

Felicity presses her lips together tensely. Diggle glances between the two of them, then stands up and grabs his coat. “I’ll give you two a few minutes.”

Oliver waits until he’s gone before speaking again. “The book.”

“Oliver —”

“I deserve answers. I saved your life, but that doesn’t mean I can’t leave here and go straight to the police with information on the vigilante,” he says threateningly, sitting up straighter.

“I would stop you.”

He glares at her. “You wouldn’t.” He doesn’t know how he knows it, but he just knows. She wouldn’t hurt him, he’s been too close to this secret all along. If she wanted him dead just to keep her secret safe, she would’ve done it long ago.

Her voice is small when she speaks again. “Oliver, I… lied to you. I lied the day we met. The very first time we ever spoke.”

He raises his chin in surprise.

“You asked about your dad, and I said he drowned on the boat.” She swallows hard, looking him straight in the eye. “I lied. We both made it to a lifeboat, along with the captain.”

“What?” he bites out, his eyes stinging. “My dad… survived?”

“He did. We floated for almost a day. But…” she trails off, her voice becoming choked. “There weren’t enough rations for all of us. So he shot the captain. I — I didn’t even know he had a gun.”

Oliver bends down, putting his face in his hands, somehow knowing how this story ends, because he knew his dad, he knew the sort of man he was.

“He turned to me and he told me to survive. He told me to right his wrongs. And he told me to protect you, and your sister, and your mother, at all costs. Oliver, he made me promise.” She’s crying now, her voice breaking on the last word, but he can’t bring himself to look at her.

“He… he shot himself. He sacrificed himself for you. For your family. And when I was rescued, the only thought I had was of the promise I made.”

Oliver clears his throat, trying to wrap his mind around it, but wasn’t it what he’d suspected all along? That Felicity was bending the truth of her relationship with his father?

“Why you?” he asks finally. “When he could’ve shot you and the captain, or you and himself… Why you?”

She shakes her head. “If there was a reason, he took it to his grave.”

Oliver’s eyes land on the book once more, the little brown book etched with the names of his father’s friends and business partners. “And what about that book?”

She follows his gaze, then lets out a sigh. “That’s mine. Or, I mean… that’s not the book you gave me that night.” Off of his scowl, she elaborates, “I found that book on your father’s body.”

“And you’ve been crossing off names,” he says as the final piece falls in place. “Bertinelli, Hunt, Brodeur… this is some sick crusade you think my father sent you on.”

“No, it’s a crusade I _know_ your father sent me on.” She stands up and takes a couple of tentative steps toward him. “Oliver, your name isn’t on that list. Neither is your mother’s, or Walter’s. Even if they were, I’ve sworn to protect you all.” She looks at him helplessly. “You don’t have to join the team, but Oliver, I think you could do a lot of good for this city if you tried to right the wrongs of your father.”

“You mean _kill people_.” The very thought turns his stomach.

She turns away, frustrated. Oliver can’t comprehend it. Here is a woman who spent most of the night flatlining and seizing up, her scarred and burned body on display so matter-of-factly, yet in this moment, she’s striking an exceedingly vulnerable, even frightened, pose as she stands there avoiding his eyes.

He thinks about the day they met, how she’d looked so haunted and beautiful sitting in that bright office, every single hair in place as she peered at him through her glasses. She’d appeared girly and unassuming, except for the sharp look in her eyes, and Oliver had found himself wondering how this waif had survived a five-year exile.

The more time he’d spent around her, the more often he'd glimpsed the backbone that must’ve seen her through those times, but he’d never gotten the sense that she could kill him in one swift move — not until right now, at this very moment, as she traces invisible patterns on the tabletop with her fingertips. Now, he can sense the power under the girly guise. Now he can sense that she’s crouched like a cat, ready to strike out at the smallest indication of aggression.

But _she’s_ waiting for _him_. And it seems so absurd that she should be poised for an attack from him, he’s never killed anyone. Yet here she stands, waiting in a mindlessly defensive pose as she pretends not to pay attention. His anger melts away into something like remorse as he watches her.

His father had saved her, but for what? Perhaps it was noble, after the life he’d lived, to ensure that a younger life would prosper, but Oliver thinks his sacrifice was also a cowards move across the chessboard, where Robert offered himself up as the black king to Felicity’s white queen. She’d survived that island to come back and protect his family, but for what? Oliver glances around the dank basement, which smells of mildew and has that unpleasant dampness that all basements have, and he doesn’t see a life worth living. He sees survival. He sees emptiness. He sees blood and death dressed up in green.

“I don’t want to be on a crusade, Felicity,” he says quietly. “I don’t like your methods.”

She glares at him, defiant, ready to strike. “Then why go to all this trouble to save me?”

He stands up and crosses his arms. “I want to find Walter.”

She blinks. “Walter. You want to find your stepdad?”

“Yes. I know he’s probably dead, so don’t give me that look. I want to find him, to know for sure. I’ll help you find him, and then that’s it.” He watches her for her reaction, but she seems surprised to say the least.

“Okay,” she says finally.

He takes another step toward her. “What did my mother say? When you questioned her?”

Felicity bows her head, ashamed, and mutters, “She said she didn’t know anything about Walter. She… begged for her life. Pleaded. On your behalf. Yours and Thea’s.”

He doesn’t even try to hide the relief he feels at her words. “Do you believe her?”

She meets his eyes once more, and her words are barbed as she says, “You know her better than anyone. Do you?”

He doesn’t answer. He simply grabs his coat and starts heading for the door, intent to get home now and bear the wrath of his mother and sister.

“Oliver.”

Her small, hopeful voice stops him, and he turns slowly. She holds out her hand silently, still watching him, and he takes it.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “You saved my life.”

He gives her a wan smile as her small, cold hand grips his gratefully.

He still trusts her. After everything, he still trusts her.


	11. what are you doing? fight back!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity remembers the day she met Slade Wilson, nearly six months after she’d washed up on the shoreline of Lian Yu. He was all muscle, with black eyes that were almost as dark as his hair, olive skin, and a deep, rasping, velvety voice that frightened her and intrigued her all at the same time. He’d hissed threats into her ear as he pressed his blade into her neck, and that first meeting had set the antagonistic tone of their relationship.

For days, Felicity can’t find the words to describe how she felt when she woke up on that table to Oliver’s relieved smile.

She was certain she’d died.

And in her haze of pain and unconsciousness, she was certain that her return to Starling City, her life as a vigilante, was the real dream, because the nightmares of the island had felt so real.

 

* * *

 

She remembers the day she met Slade Wilson, nearly six months after she’d washed up on the shoreline of Lian Yu. He was all muscle, with black eyes that were almost as dark as his hair, olive skin, and a deep, rasping, velvety voice that frightened her and intrigued her all at the same time. He’d hissed threats into her ear as he pressed his blade into her neck, and that first meeting had set the antagonistic tone of their relationship.

He viewed her as a burden. “Why did Yao Fei send _you_ ,” he’d sneered as he’d tossed her a sword. “He is a far softer judge of character than I am.”

She’d stood there stupidly, holding an unwieldy blade as she shivered in a mercenary’s stolen uniform — a mercenary she had killed herself. Slade had walked circles around her, disgust etched in every line of his face, and then he’d said, “If you’re going to have my back, I need to know you can cover it.”

Those black eyes scared her, because they glinted like flint just before he lunged at her. She’d blocked him clumsily, but he caught her with his blade to her neck once more, and she cowered. She was ready to die.

This only made him angrier. “What are you doing?” he fumed, his teeth bared. “Fight back!”

She didn’t know it at the time, but Slade was former ASIS, special forces trained, and had been fending for himself on that island for some time. She was no match for him, and she’d never felt so close to death as she did in the face of his fury. But Robert had begged her to survive, and Yao Fei had taught her some basic fighting techniques, so she fought back instinctively.

She hit Slade in the face as hard as she could, and his body bent like a pine tree in a storm. She felt so ridiculously small and powerless in that moment, sure that he was going to swing one massive arm and end her life. Yet when he straightened, he was laughing, and he grabbed her by the shoulders of her oversized uniform. “There might be a fighter in you yet!” he’d guffawed condescendingly, and while she should’ve been grateful, all she felt was loathing.

He spent the next few weeks needling her, holding blades to her throat or guns to her temple and taunting her until she fought back. And each time she fought, he barked instructions at her. “Keep your blade up!” “Use his gun against him.” “Always stay behind your sword!”

He was merciless in his training. If Felicity babbled or whined, she earned a smack to the face, either with his elbow or with bamboo. She learned to live with bruises and blood, with pulled muscles and sprained wrists. He had no sense of personal space, often getting in her face or tackling her from behind in unguarded moments. If he were a different sort of man, he would’ve easily taken her body, but his only interest was escape from the island, and to achieve that, he needed to strengthen her resolve, not break her spirit. She feared his strength and fury, but she never feared his self-control.

He constantly reminded her of their dire situation, of the slim chance of their rescue, of their certain death, and the necessity to fight through the pain. “You only have two choices: die, or escape!” he’d barked over and over again, and this mantra, more than anything, had shaped her warrior heart. Death was not an option. Over time, she learned to take the licks without complaint, and eventually, she even withstood them without crying out. Still, every day, Slade would decry his lot in life that he was stuck with a naive little weakling like Felicity Smoak.

“What I wouldn’t give for a _real_ soldier!” he’d snarled on a rainy morning as she lay prostrate on the ground, having just mishandled a surprise attack from him.

She’d struggled to sit up, her back burning from the lashing he’d just dealt her with a bamboo stick, and muttered, “Yeah? How did the last soldier work out for you, Slade?”

He had been walking away when she said it, but her words brought him up short. He turned, his boots squelching in the mud as he fixed his black eyes on her. “What did you say?”

Maybe she was used to the beatings, or maybe she just wanted to use her only weapon — her sharp wits — to inflict injuries on Slade. Felicity didn’t feel reasonable as she sat soaked in mud and rain, staring up at the imposing figure above her as she said, “I mean, I’m no Billy Wintergreen —”

She’d taken aim and fired, and her words hit their mark as Slade reared back and brought his bamboo stick down with startling speed. She scrambled out of range and stood up, grabbing her abandoned stick behind her as she faced her consequences.

“You are weak! You are small! The only thing more breakable than your spirit is your body! _They will crush you like a bug!_ ” he’d thundered as he dealt blow after blow, but Felicity was possessed of the same rage, and she parried him artfully, twisting and lashing and moving in concert with him until they were at a draw, their bamboo sticks crossed, their noses only an inch apart.

His bitter eyes bore into hers, his breath warm on her face as they stood at an impasse. Then, with an expression of deepest disgust, Slade lowered his bamboo stick and trotted away without uttering another word.

He hated her optimism. He hated her bleeding heart. He hated her relentless desire to rescue Yao Fei from his captors.

She hated his unbending pessimism. She hated that he believed Yao Fei to be compromised. She hated that he treated her like an albatross.

Sometimes she wished she could poison his food or slit his throat in his sleep; anything to free herself of his abuse. Other times, she suspected he had similar thoughts about her: that his life would be easier if he could just toss her over a cliff, or hold her head underwater just long enough to do the trick.

Eventually, she realized that he would approve of these dark thoughts if she had voiced them. They were mercenary thoughts, the musings of killers and survivors. He was slowly beating it into her, and each morning when she woke with a jolt, she felt less and less like the genius who had graduated from MIT at 19. Sometimes she'd catch her reflection in a puddle or in a still river, her eyes wild and her expression feral, and she hated Slade for turning her into someone she didn't recognize.

But there were days that she was grateful for Slade. They took out a whole group of mercenaries in quick precision, a well-planned and perfectly-executed ambush of eight of Fyers’ best men. She’d done her part in taking out two of them, but it was the first time she got to watch Slade use his considerable skills against someone other than herself. It was a bit like watching an artist painting on canvas, or an orchestra conductor, or... how she used to look in front of a bank of computers. Her genius was in technology; Slade's was in battle.

There was also the time she’d accidentally stepped on an old land mine; Slade could’ve easily left her as a sitting duck for a marauding band of mercenaries, but he orchestrated a perfect surprise attack and used a dead mercenary’s body to save Felicity from certain death. She'd stared up at him gratefully as he crouched away from the body, and he only gave her a curt nod of acknowledgement before his usual visage of anger was back in place. 

And there were days when Slade would smile at her, genuine smiles of pride or happiness, such as the time she took out a mercenary all on her own while Slade was injured. He’d stared at her with newfound respect after she pistol-whipped the attacker, leaving him bleeding and unconscious in the middle of a muddy path. He’d also smiled lazily after she’d run across the island and back for life-saving herbs to nurse Slade back from an infected bullet wound. She was no Florence Nightingale, but she held the back of his head as she tipped the herbal concoction into his mouth, her fingers moving in thoughtless comfort as he shivered from sickness. His eyes had met hers over the top of the bowl, and her fingers had stilled as she waited for a verbal lashing that never came. Instead, he held her gaze for a long moment before closing his eyes and drinking the rest of the liquid. Those rare moments of vulnerability were always beacons to Felicity, signals that he wasn’t as dark as he’d have her believe.

As weeks grew into months, she came to feel a sort of perverse affection for Slade, and he seemed to feel the same way about her. He always came back for her when she was cornered, he valued her opinions on strategy, and he’d stopped boxing her in the ear every time she started talking about rewiring a radio she’d found in the debris of the fuselage. They were partners, they were allies, they often detested each other, but they were united in one goal: escape.

And somewhere along the way, she’d been stupid enough to fall in love with him.

She never knew when it started, and she was never struck with a bolt of realization. It grew with time, over campfires that set sinister shadows dancing on his face, across fields where they’d battled with bamboo sticks and sent each other to the ground, on windy cliffsides that overlooked the merciless beauty of their island. She’d feel it in sideways glances, in the sound of his breathing as he slept, in the movement of his body as he marched through the woods.

After defending themselves in an unexpected attack, their hands had been covered in blood. They’d paused at a river in a deep-set glen to wash up, and when Slade had straightened up with water dripping from his black hair, he’d sent a mindless smile in Felicity’s direction, as if to indicate that this sort of thing had become so commonplace that he could find humor in it. Usually she would chuckle at his break in pessimism, but something had possessed her that day, so she’d stood up next to him and kissed him.

It had surprised him as much as any sign of affection would. He was often put on guard by laughter, by physical touch, even by a grin, so when she’d raised herself up on her toes and pressed her lips to his, he’d gone rigid with shock. She’d been in his company long enough to know that she was inches from death, that if he sensed duplicity or danger in the contact, he’d break her neck and walk away without a single regret.

The air was still when she’d pulled away, and she drew in a jagged breath in the interminable moment that followed the contact. His black eyes looked so dangerous that she’d briefly thought she’d kissed a wild animal.

And in a sense, she had. There was nothing tame about the way he grabbed her face to pull her lips back to his, the way his hands moved down her body as she grasped the front of his coat in tight fists, the way he tore her clothes from her body. They were both grimy and blood-soaked, so they’d tumbled into the river, which was as wild as the island itself, swirling in eddies around large, flat rocks. They’d emerged soaked and slick but clean for the first time in weeks. He’d taken her hungrily, pressing her into the mossy grass on the bank as she matched him move for move.

There was no laughter or soft kisses that day, no smiles of affection, no declarations of love except for the way he looked at her just before it was over.

They’d dressed and acted as if nothing had happened, resuming their battle against the island and each other once more. She had no time to spare to wonder how he was feeling, or to lust after him, because every day was a new set of challenges, every spare moment was spent in training or planning, and every night was marked in deep exhaustion.

In her limited free time, she fiddled with the broken radio, which annoyed Slade to no end. For weeks she had twisted wires, reattached cables, and rearranged screws in an attempt to get it up and running, and then one day, it came to life. In his excitement, Slade tore across the fuselage, his face alight with hope as he grasped the microphone in his large hand and pressed the button, calling for a rescue aircraft.

She watched the hope die in his face as they realized the air traffic controller couldn’t hear them. He’d slammed the microphone down on the table contemptuously, and he didn’t talk to her for the rest of the night.

A few days later, there was a brutal storm that put out their fire, even under cover of the fuselage, and Slade had pulled Felicity close to him so they could share body heat. He held himself rigid against her, still bitter about his lapse into optimism. “Hope is weakness,” he’d said hatefully only a few hours ago, just before the storm rolled in, but Felicity didn’t believe him anymore. No one hoped more ardently than Slade Wilson; he simply hated it about himself.

They didn’t speak as she curled into his side, pressing her cold hands into the warm skin of his torso. He inhaled sharply at the freezing contact, but he didn’t push her away. Instead, she found him responding to her smallest movements. She’d measured his breath, feeling his pulse against her cheek as she nestled into his shoulder, and then her hands had begun to wander. Slade, for his battle-ready, revenge-bent mind, was just as susceptible as any other man.

With the storm as their protection against ambushes, and with nowhere to go for the entire night, they took their time. In the pitch black and the howling wind, they were only illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning. It was hardly romantic, but it was intimate, and Felicity fell asleep in his arms.

After that, they’d go for days, even weeks, without touching, until one of them would silently initiate more contact. Sometimes, Felicity would crawl onto Slade’s sleeping mat and nestle in beside him. Other days, he’d stroke her cheek in the middle of defensive tactics practice and she’d turn into the embrace. They never spoke about it, and sometimes she wondered if that was how he endured.

Years later, after she’d lost Slade and her humanity, Felicity would come to realize that _she_ was teaching _him_ all along. Things he couldn’t say with words or expressions, he would attempt to say with his body. An “I love you” from another man was Slade waking her up in the middle of the night with a kiss to her neck. An “I’m glad you made it back safe” was Slade ignoring her for hours after her return, then suddenly pressing her up against a tree and kissing her so passionately that she couldn’t breathe. Where some men would wear their expressions of lust and desire openly, Slade was almost mechanical in his initiation of intimacy, always keeping his eyes averted and his expression impassive, but he never once let her walk away unsatisfied.

He was teaching her how to fight, and she was teaching him how to feel.

It was not a perfect system, but it worked for a while. Love complicates things, but it was still love, the kind of love that ran deep enough to scare her. And it might have scared her if she wasn’t facing certain death every day on the island.

Things only became complicated when they rescued Shado. That’s when it all stopped.

 

* * *

 

Now, she waits in the darkness of the basement, her mind on Slade thanks to the dreams brought on by blood loss and lingering effects of vertigo. The velvet sound still permeates her mind during the uneasy moments between sleeping and waking. He had the sort of unforgettable voice that stays with her more than any others; she doesn’t remember her father’s voice, or the voice of her college boyfriend, and even Shado’s voice is fading now, but Slade’s is still etched on her brain, seared onto her skin, making her shiver and itch as the memory of his kiss still haunts her.

She would almost believe he was still alive if she hadn’t killed him herself.

Night after night she sits in the foundry alone, waiting. All of her vigilante work hangs in the balance, so she takes a break from crossing off names, choosing to remotely monitor the general crime of the city. Intriguing patterns emerge, and she takes copious notes, but nothing captures her attention long enough to take her mind off of her memories or Oliver.

Diggle shows up one night with Chinese food, which he places on the desk in front of Felicity. “No word?” It’s not really a question.

“Nothing.”

He settles into the chair beside her, opening cartons and taking a bite of an eggroll. She pokes at her Kung Pao chicken morosely, her appetite mostly gone since her recent brush with death.

“Felicity, I know you don’t want to hurt this boy,” Diggle says consolingly. “And you didn’t have any choice in telling him who you were. But you’re asking him to get involved in some dangerous stuff.”

“We can protect him,” she says tonelessly.

“How? His mother shot you — you can’t even protect yourself.”

“She was scared,” Felicity says defensively. “She was defending herself, and I had my guard down.”

“Or she was hiding something, like maybe her involvement in Walter’s disappearance. Or worse.” Diggle hadn’t let go of his suspicion of Moira Queen, and Felicity couldn’t really blame him. She just wished he would shut up about it for a while.

“We don’t always know why people do what they do,” Felicity says with more animation than she’s felt in days. “What I do know is that when I was standing there in her office with an arrow aimed at her heart, she begged me to spare her, all on behalf of Oliver and Thea. I’ve taken down a lot of bad people, but none of them brought up their kids, Digg.”

“She had the List,” Diggle says relentlessly. “She may not be in charge in whatever ‘it’ is, but she’s definitely involved —”

“Involved in what?” Felicity snaps. “We don’t even know what ‘it’ is, and until we do, she’s off limits. Am I clear?”

Digg stares at her with a mixture of disbelief and sympathy, then nods once. She turns away, going back to her food, but Diggle asks, “Are you saying this because you truly believe she’s innocent? Or because you don’t want to face the fact that Robert’s wife — Oliver’s mother — might be guilty?”


	12. i'm not robin hood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s important that you know… this isn’t a game to me, Oliver.” She says it softly, like she’s talking to someone on their deathbed. “I’m here for a reason: your father wanted me to be. And whether you join the team or not, my methods and my mission are not going to change. I owe your father a debt, and I won’t stop until it is repaid.”

“You saved my sister.”

Felicity had already been sitting at her desk for two hours, scanning the local news articles about a recent jewel heist, when Oliver's voice floats across the quiet foundry that morning. She had been planning to resume her work on the List tonight, whether she heard from Oliver or not, so she is dressed in her leather pants and a black long-sleeved shirt, and she’d been expecting Diggle's voice when she heard the alleyway door open and shut.

She swivels in her chair and looks at Oliver composedly. It’s been almost ten days since he and Diggle had saved her life, which meant nine long nights of waiting — waiting for police sirens, or a bomb, or some kind of stealthy assassination attempt, but she'd stopped expecting an appearance by Oliver himself by the second night. Now, instead of Detective Lance or a SWAT team, it's just Oliver, standing there with his hands in the pockets of his brown leather coat, his feet planted shoulder-width apart as if he’s preparing for battle.

“The Count,” he continues. “The vertigo case. The city’s most notorious drug dealer was captured and committed to the asylum. That had to have been you. Did you threaten Laurel’s dad? Is that why the judge granted Thea's plea deal after all?”

“I took out the Count,” Felicity says delicately, rising from her chair slowly. “I was ready to kill him, he’s human garbage, but Lance intervened on his behalf. As for Thea’s plea deal… I don’t interfere with the judicial system. I’m not that subtle.”

He’s watching her again as she cracks a wry smile; she wonders if she’ll ever feel like she’s not under a microscope.

“I can’t have you involving my family in your crusade,” he says finally. “Or my friends. That means no more Laurel —”

“I stopped with Laurel,” Felicity says quickly, seizing his olive branch. “I told her after the Vanch case that we were done. I couldn’t put her in danger anymore.”

“But that means no dangling Thea as bait, no more attacking my mother —” he continues loudly.

“I know.” She takes a tentative step toward him. “Oliver, I… I did everything I could think of to avoid putting your mother in front of my arrow. I promise. And Thea’s just a kid — I would never endanger her knowingly.”

“ _Knowingly_. But you’re playing a dangerous game here. And joining this team, I’m putting my whole family at risk.”

His expression is forbidding. She wishes he were anyone else, that he didn’t have this intangible power to make her feel small. She hasn’t felt small in years, and there’s nothing about Oliver that should make her feel diminutive, yet he makes her question everything.

“It’s important that you know… this isn’t a game to me, Oliver.” She says it softly, like she’s talking to someone on their deathbed. “I’m here for a reason: your father wanted me to be. And whether you join the team or not, my methods and my mission are not going to change. I owe your father a debt, and I won’t stop until it is repaid.”

He looks mollified, but a deep sort of sadness crosses his features as he stares at her. He takes another long moment to think it over, then mutters, “Okay.”

She takes another step. “Does that mean you’re on the team?”

“Just until we find Walter,” he says, putting his hands up. “Then I’m done.”

She nods. “Then let’s get you up to speed.”

She quickly realizes there are unexpected benefits to having Oliver on her team now, including the fact that he has inside information on the comings and goings of his mother. “Thea was convinced our mother was having an affair with Malcolm Merlyn," he says almost matter-of-factly when Felicity brings up the tycoon's name. "That’s why she crashed her car the night of her party, she was angry.”

“Malcolm Merlyn?” Felicity repeats, swiveling in her chair to bring up his information on her computer. “Tommy’s dad? He’s one of the only billionaires whose name _isn’t_ on the list.”

“Really?” Oliver asks mildly. “That’s surprising — he and my dad were pretty close when Tommy and I were kids.”

“They weren’t close when your dad died?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Tommy’s mom died when we were six. His dad sort of withdrew after that. Tommy started spending most of his time at our house, even lived with us for a couple of years when Malcolm moved to another country.”

Felicity scans the news articles on Rebecca Merlyn; her death had shaken the community to its core, as she’d been stabbed and left to die alone in the middle of the street in the Glades, the victim of a seemingly random mugging gone wrong.

“Well he’s certainly built himself an empire since then,” she remarks. “Merlyn Global Group still isn’t as massive as Queen Consolidated, but he’s branched into more countries than we have, and his projections are staggering.” She gives Oliver a sharp look. “He’s been widowed for a long time now. Are you sure he and your mom aren’t —”

“No,” Oliver says, pulling a disgusted face. “I asked her about it after Thea told me why she was upset. Mom said she’s simply been going to Malcolm for business advice since she’s new to managing a corporation.”

Sounds plausible. “Then we’re back to square one. Besides your mother being kind of a vault when it comes to secrets, there’s nothing that would indicate she has anything to do with the List or Walter’s disappearance.”

“Except for the fact that she _had_ it,” Oliver reminds her. “And that Walter is missing.”

They’re interrupted by the distant sound of the alley door slamming shut, and a moment later, Diggle strolls into sight, his eyes landing on Oliver bemusedly. “New team member,” he remarks, draping his coat over the back of his chair.

“Provisionally,” Felicity amends. “Until we find Walter.”

Diggle brightens. “Then we kill him?”

Oliver blanches as Felicity laughs. “Relax, Oliver. That just means Diggle likes you.” Diggle grins as Oliver slumps in his chair uneasily.

“Did you choose a new target?” Diggle asks interestedly, his eyes darting from the open List to the picture of Malcolm Merlyn on her computer screen. She didn’t account for his boredom during her ten days of solitude; he’s practically chomping at the bit.

“I did,” she replies, closing out all of her Merlyn windows and bringing up a photo of a different middle-aged white man. “His name is Ken Williams. He is the creator of the city’s most elaborate pyramid scheme. He’s stolen millions from investors.”

She stands up and starts sorting through her gear as Diggle and Oliver lean in to read the information on Williams. “I don’t know this one,” Oliver says after a moment.

“He’s probably what you Queens refer to as ‘ _nouveau riche_ ,’” Felicity teases from behind them as she starts loading her quiver with newly-sharpened arrows. “Made all his money in the last seven years building this house of cards.”

“You need backup?” Diggle calls hopefully. He really is dying to get back out there.

Felicity shakes her head as she pulls on her gloves. “No, this one should be easy.”

He looks a little disappointed, but he’s already grabbing some sticks to start a workout with one of the dummies (or maybe he’ll start training with their brand new living, breathing dummy) as she pulls on her leather jacket and heads for the door.

"Wait!" 

She comes to a sudden halt as Oliver clumsily slides in front of her, his shoes slipping on the slick cement. “What are you doing?” she asks tersely, already dreading the look of determination on his face.

“Williams has a dating profile,” Oliver says, gesturing at the computer behind her. “He’s the widowed father of a ten-year-old boy.”

She holds her arms out questioningly. “Is this about Tommy—?”

“ _I told you_ , I’m only in this to find Walter, not to be an accessory to orphaning children!” Oliver asserts.

“I’m just giving him a warning,” Felicity explains, her patience wearing thin. “Move out of my way.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that you could do some real good in this city?” Oliver continues insistently, standing firm even though she could easily topple him if she wanted to get past him. “Aside from correcting the dumb decisions made by the one percent?”

“That’s ironic, coming from an heir to a billionaire’s fortune,” Felicity snaps.

"Hey, maybe you knew my dad on a boat for _three days_ before he killed himself, but I knew him my whole life!" Oliver snaps, suddenly towering over her. "And I have a hard time believing that he took his life so that you could come back and restore a bunch of stock portfolios!" 

Felicity glowers up at him. "Get out of my way before I make you move," she says quietly, and it would’ve sounded suggestive and mortifying if it hadn’t come out so angrily. As it is, Oliver holds his ground, his hands balled into fists as his eyes roam over her face. “This was a mistake.”

“Challenging me? I don’t disagree,” she retorts, but he shakes his head and leans forward so quickly that she’s forced to take a step back. Dammit.

“No! Joining this team!” He spins on his heel and marches through the alley door in front of her. “Even provisionally!”

Felicity shoots Diggle an astonished look as the alley door slams shut, but Diggle just shrugs and says, “I tried to warn you.”

 

* * *

 

Diggle accompanies Felicity up to Oliver’s office at Queen Consolidated the next day. She’d given him a night to cool off, but Oliver is too much of a loose end to have hanging out there.

“Oh no,” she says sarcastically upon walking into Oliver’s empty office. “Maybe we should come back…”

“Or maybe we should wait,” Diggle rejoins firmly. “This is really serious. What if his next attack of conscience leads him right to the police?”

“He won’t say anything, I know. I had to make the same calculation when you found out about me.” She sits primly in one of Oliver’s chairs, her eyes scanning his desktop for some sort of clue as to why he’s not here.

“Mmhmm. And what would you have done if you were wrong about me?” Diggle asks smugly.

“I would’ve put an arrow in you.”

She raises her eyebrows as Diggle lets out a bark of a laugh, but when he catches her expression, he immediately sobers and asks, “No really, you — you really would’ve done that? Really?”

She’s saved a response by Oliver’s sudden arrival. He doesn’t look at all surprised to see them; in fact, he grunts to himself and says, “I was wondering how long it would take for you two to come threatening me not to reveal your secret.”

“Actually, Oliver, I was hoping to change your mind,” Felicity says swiftly as he walks around his desk and drops into his chair. “I was working off of pre-mission adrenaline yesterday, and I didn’t give you the right impression of how the team works. I was hoping you’d give me an opportunity to do that now.”

He looks singularly unimpressed. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? Here’s some free advice, Felicity: when you memorize a bullshit speech, at least pretend to believe it.” He shakes his head. “Are you this bad at charming everyone, or am I a special exception?”

Diggle snorts softly behind her, and Felicity feels herself blushing.

“How about Mr. Williams?” Oliver continues, his fingers moving across his keyboard as he brings up the local news stream. “Did he get to enjoy your adrenaline last night?”

“No, he returned the money he stole just in time to put his son to bed.”

Some of Oliver’s haughtiness fades as his hands still on the desktop. “That’s better. You actually sounded like you cared that time.”

“I told you, Oliver, just a warning,” she insists, not rising to his bait.

He grudgingly nods just as a press conference starts about the recent theft of the Sherwood Ruby from the Starling City Museum. A pretty brunette detective named McKenna Hall discloses the information about the jewelry thief, imploring the public to consider him armed and dangerous. “I heard about this guy,” Diggle offers, stepping forward. “They call him the ‘Dodger’ because he avoids getting his hands dirty. He uses hostages to do his stealing for him.”

Felicity’s interest is piqued. “How?”

“He puts a bomb collar around their necks. Last year, a guy in Madrid didn’t steal what the Dodger told him to and he took his head off. Literally.”

“Well, too bad his name’s not in your notebook,” Oliver says sarcastically.

Felicity remembers his words from yesterday, the way he’d insisted that she could do some real good in the city. She’s gone off-book before. Maybe this is a good way to get Oliver in her corner.

“You know, not all of the people that I target are on the List,” she says slowly. “Every once in a while, I make an exception. Hostage-taking jewel thief? Sounds like a good exception. Why don’t you help us take him down?”

Oliver ponders the offer as Diggle shifts his weight excitedly.

This could be fun.

 

* * *

 

“Oliver. Pay attention.”

“Sorry. It’s just — is this how you two normally plan your attacks? Over burgers and shakes?”

They’re sitting in a booth at Big Belly Burger on their lunch break; Diggle and Felicity are wedged into the same side as they munch on fries, and Oliver, not for the first time, is distracted by the patrons around them.

“Well, Diggle’s sister-in-law works here, so technically it’s over discounted burgers and shakes,” Felicity replies. “What were you expecting? A seedy bar?”

“That would be more fitting,” Oliver says, tugging the basket of fries toward himself. “This feels more like we’re about to plan a carwash fundraiser, or organizing the election campaign for the president of the PTA.”

“Well we’re not. We’re trying to figure out how to catch a guy with a Dickensian nickname who is considered armed and dangerous,” she says in a low voice.

“I have an idea,” Oliver says brightly. “That detective from the press conference, McKenna Hall? I went to school with her.”

“Yeah?”

“You create a microchip thingy, I’ll distract her and plant it in her phone, and boom, we’ll learn everything she knows.” He sits back, satisfied with his plan.

“And you get to go on a date with the pretty detective,” Diggle interjects. “Ah, the charmed life.”

But Felicity can’t see a downside to this plan; in fact, it’s pretty inspired. “It’s not how I typically get my information,” she starts.

Oliver rolls his eyes. “How do you normally get your information?”

“I find the person, then I put the fear of God in them until they talk.”

Oliver blinks as Diggle suppresses a laugh.

“But we can try it your way this time,” Felicity agrees with a small smile.

 

* * *

 

Oliver returns from his mission positively glowing, and in turn, Felicity nearly glows when his plan shows immediate returns; only an hour after he’s planted the chip, McKenna calls Detective Lance to report another dead body in connection to the Dodger.

“He’s a fence,” Diggle says when they pull up the arrest record of the dead man. “He was looking to unload the Sherwood Ruby.”

“So he’ll be in the market for a new fence,” Felicity surmises. “We find the fence, we find the Dodger.”

“How do we do that?” Oliver asks interestedly, turning to Felicity in his seat.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.” His disappointment is evident in his tone, and she glances at him questioningly. “Sorry,” he says hastily. “I just thought you guys had… a process, or something.”

“No, this is pretty much how it usually goes,” Diggle smirks.

Felicity sends Oliver on his date with McKenna, because, “You might be able to charm some information out of her.” When Oliver looks away sheepishly at her gentle teasing, Felicity realizes that he’s nursing an actual crush on the detective, and she’s a little surprised at his lack of game. Wasn’t he a playboy in a former life? Is he that rusty?

“You’re not worried about that?” Diggle asks her as soon as Oliver’s gone. “He seems like the kind of kid who would accidentally tell secrets during pillow talk.”

“He won’t. Besides, it’s our inside track at the police station now that Lance has retired the burner phone. We can utilize this relationship.”

Diggle snorts. “Got it. You’re his pimp.”

“Hey, what he does in his free time with Detective Hall is none of my concern,” she says with false gravity, holding her hands up blamelessly.

As it turns out, Diggle’s concerns are unfounded. Only twenty minutes into their date, Oliver calls Felicity. “Activate the bug in McKenna’s phone,” he says curtly as soon as she picks up. “I think the police just got a lead on the Dodger.”

Felicity activates the tracker and Diggle watches it on the map as she dashes to hood up. “Warehouse in the Bay District of the Glades!” Diggle barks as Felicity grabs her bow.

The police are already in a gunfight when she gets there. She’s just made the rooftop when a well-dressed man bursts out of an emergency exit below. She aims an arrow just above his head, and he skids to a stop and turns after the arrow ricochets off the dumpster behind him.

“Come quietly!” Felicity yells.

“I’m afraid I have to decline!” the man calls back.

“Then I’m afraid you won’t be going to jail!” she shouts, releasing another arrow. She drops down into the alley as the man dodges her arrow and ducks behind the dumpster. Just as she’s notching another one, she’s rocked by an explosion and lands on her side. When she regains her feet, the man is gone.

 

* * *

 

“So he got away.”

Felicity huffs and drops her bow on her trunk as she lowers her hood and fixes Oliver with a hard look. “I would say it probably went about as well as your date.”

Oliver scowls.

Felicity removes her leather jacket and moves to her computer bank, dropping into her chair with a tired sigh. “I was thinking we should try a different tack. Try to lure this guy out with a piece he can’t resist.”

“What do you have in mind?” Diggle asks from beside the punching bag, breathing heavily as he unwinds the glove wraps from his wrists.

“He’s after a certain type of antiquity,” she says, bringing up the past heists attributed to the Dodger on her computer. “All of these pieces seem to be from the Ominous Decade. The last ten years of King Ferdinand’s reign,” she adds off of Oliver and Diggle’s blank looks.

“You want to buy an Ominous thingy and put it on display?” Oliver asks slowly. “It’s gotta be the real thing — he’s a collector, he won’t fall for a fake.”

“There’s an auction for the Starling City Cancer Society tomorrow,” Felicity answers. “The real question is… which piece of rare Spanish antiquity is your family willing to donate, Oliver?”

 

* * *

 

The guys move around the crowded auction inconspicuously. Diggle, trained in the art of fading into the background, stays along the edges of the room and watches for any odd signs. Oliver takes care to mingle with friends and acquaintances, keeping an eye out for someone matching Felicity’s vague description of the man she’d encountered last night.

She shows up in a slinky gold sequined dress, staying as close to the aqua jewel as possible without drawing attention to herself. She’s activated a tracker chip on the jewel, and she watches it closely on her phone.

“The police are here too,” Diggle reports quietly. “Your bait’s attracted them, at least.”

“Not exactly who I’m looking to catch,” Felicity murmurs back, and Diggle moves away to continue his monitoring of the room.

Only a moment later, the tracker on the jewel is activated; someone’s moved it. She spins around, trying to find the culprit, but in a sea of rich white people, she can’t get a bead on anyone acting suspiciously.

Before she has a chance to panic, a strong hand wraps around her arm and yanks her into the coat room. Normally she’d fight, but the familiar scent of his aftershave had clued her in to her would-be attacker, and she relaxes instinctively.

“I think we have a problem,” Oliver says in barely-controlled panic as he gestures at his throat. Sure enough, he’s strapped with a blinking gold collar.

Diggle appears just as Oliver starts backing away from Felicity. “What—?” he starts, then falls silent when he sees the collar.

“Back up, you don’t want to be too close if this goes off,” Oliver says loudly, pressing himself against the back wall.

“Oliver, just stay calm, okay, the tracker is on the move,” Felicity says quickly, pressing her tracking device into Oliver’s shaking hand as Diggle fumbles with the collar. “You guys stay on the line with me. I need clear, concise directions, Oliver, just focus on getting me to the jewel.”

He sucks in a deep breath, then nods resolutely. It’s all the reassurance she needs, so she runs for her motorcycle, which is parked in the garage next door. She’d practiced quick changes into her leathers, and she was never more grateful for it than right now, when it takes her less than thirty seconds to tuck her gold dress into her green leather pants and cover it with her green jacket. She doesn’t need the hood tonight; she has a helmet.

“Talk to me, Oliver,” she says loudly into her helmet mic, hoping his focus on the mission at hand will stave off a panic attack.

“Okay,” he says haltingly. “He’s heading toward Adams. Gotta be in a vehicle.”

She speeds toward Adams Street, weaving in and out of traffic as she peers into cars in search of that familiar face, Oliver's voice constantly in her ear as he directs her after the jewel.

“Cut through Harris Plaza,” Oliver instructs, and Felicity obliges, directing her bike down the stairs.

“Got him in a grey sedan!” Felicity shouts as she spots his profile. She pursues him for a harrowing two blocks before she manages to run him off the road. His car flips over and the Dodger crawls out as Felicity gets off her bike.

“Don’t do anything stupid!” he calls, holding up a small electronic switch as he struggles to his feet. “I had the foresight to collar a particularly inquisitive young man. I assume he’s a friend of yours. Touch one hair on my head, and he loses his.”

Felicity smirks as she palms one of her bicep arrows. With a flick of her wrist, she tosses it into his forearm, severing his median nerve and rendering him unable to use his hand.

“Good luck with that,” she replies as the Dodger stares down at his arm, horrified. She takes the switch from him and presses the release button.

“Oh, thank God!” she hears Oliver exclaim over her bluetooth.

“Why are you doing this?” the Dodger demands, his other hand moving suspiciously. “I’m exactly like you — I only steal from the rich.”

But he swings his hand up with some sort of shock probe, which Felicity catches deftly and turns on the Dodger himself. He grunts and falls to the ground as the electric current passes through him.

“I’m not Robin Hood,” Felicity says darkly, glowering down at him.

 

* * *

 

“You know, what you do here, it’s not easy,” Oliver says conversationally later that night. His family jewels (Felicity has been purposefully using that phrase all day with a straight face to try to get a rise out of Oliver, but she’s only had limited success) are safely back at his mansion, and Diggle has gone home for the night. Felicity’s still sharpening her arrows and cleaning up, and Oliver’s sitting at her desk, his feet propped up on the corner.

He looks remarkably relaxed for a guy who almost had his head blown off a few hours ago.

“I never said it was,” she replies mildly, her eyes on her work.

“Is this your life? Catching bad guys, going to work, and then sitting here sharpening arrows?”

She slides the last arrow into her quiver and takes her time turning around to face him. “Are you just asking me this because you completely bombed a date with the girl of your dreams?”

Oliver sighs and turns away, abashed. “I didn’t… bomb it…” He fiddles with the mouse on her desk, and she resists the urge to tell him to stop. “It’s just that McKenna knew me before… when I was a jackass and a barely-functioning alcoholic. And now that I’m… me.” He shakes his head. “I have a hard time rectifying who I am now with who I used to be.”

“I know a little something about that,” Felicity says softly.

He nods. “I know. But she asked me all these questions, about my dad and about rehab… and she has this expectation of me. And I just… buckled.”

She lifts a shoulder. “There’s always going to be a reason to hide yourself away, Oliver. It’s been, what, five years since your last relationship?”

“I’ve been on dates!” he says indignantly.

“But not relationships. Not since Laurel.” _Not since Sara died_. Because Felicity suspects that’s the real reason Oliver is gun-shy about being in a relationship. “Maybe McKenna’s not the right person, but at some point, you have to decide that it’s all right to try again.”

“What about you?” Oliver asks, gesturing around the dark foundry. “Is this really the life you want?”

“It’s not a question of the life I want, Oliver. It’s the life I deserve.”

He frowns, and something in his expression reminds her of Slade. She can hear his voice again, a deep rasp echoing around her, and suddenly her throat feels dry.

“I made a lot of hard choices on the island, and they’ve stayed with me,” she continues, turning back to her arrows. “They’ll always stay with me. I’ll always question who I trust, and even if I’m… worthy of being with anyone.” She shakes her head ruefully. “With all those hangups, it’s just easier to stay in this life.”

She’s lost in thoughts and memories, in mossy riverbanks and rainy nights and blood, so much blood and burned skin and tears. It’ll always haunt her, that island, revisiting her in her happiest and saddest moments.

She almost forgets Oliver is there. He’s been sitting in silence for so long that he might’ve left, but now he’s standing behind her, his coat in his hand.

“You’re worthy,” he murmurs in a tone so intimate that it should’ve made her shiver, but it’s Slade’s voice that lingers after he leaves, Slade’s voice that echoes through the foundry like a thousand threats as she sits there in the darkness: _You’re worthy_.


	13. why should i trust you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not here to hurt you or your father!” Felicity says urgently as her eyes land on a shell casing on the ground. Only three bullets, and they all found their mark. She’s only encountered one sniper for hire who is that good. She bends down to pick one up, her hand outstretched to Tommy to keep him from shooting.
> 
> She’ll never forget the scent of curare.

Early on a freezing Saturday morning, Felicity kills a man named Guillermo Barrera on a helipad in the middle of the bay. He was an assassin for hire whose name was also on the List, but she’d had to kill him before she could find out why he was in Starling City. This puts both Diggle and Oliver in bad moods — Diggle because he’d wanted to know who Barrera’s intended target was, and Oliver because Felicity had killed someone, marking her first kill since he'd "provisionally" joined the team.

“McKenna was there,” she adds as Oliver glares at her. “She’s heading up the anti-vigilante task force now.”

“That’s great. I have a date with her tonight for Tommy’s birthday. We’ll have a lot to talk about," he says icily.

“Oliver —”

“No, it’s fine,” he says, giving in immediately. “Just try not to kill anyone else tonight.”

“Me? I’ll be decrypting Barrera’s phone all night,” she says innocently. She hooks up the phone as Oliver and Diggle resume their combat training session that Felicity had interrupted by her arrival. She’s only just begun the basic decryption when Oliver is slammed into the mat with a pained gasp.

“The trick is to keep your weight evenly distributed,” Diggle says, helping Oliver back to his feet. “It makes you harder to knock over.”

“I thought the trick was to avoid getting into fights,” Oliver grumbles.

“Yeah, well, Starling City’s not the kind of place where you can talk your way out of trouble,” Diggle says flatly. “Besides, if you’re gonna be working with us, you need to be able to handle yourself. At least a little bit.”

Felicity sneaks a glance in time to see Oliver rolling his eyes as he resumes his defensive stance; only three seconds later, he’s flat on the mat again. Diggle might be fighting a lost cause.

The phone encryption is practically Pentagon-levels of protected, so Felicity spends most of the day trying different methods to get into the phone. The guys go about their days around her, leaving for separate errands and tasks and returning later for updates and more training. When Oliver finally leaves for Tommy’s birthday dinner that evening, Felicity barely registers his farewell. Diggle had already left an hour before that.

She’s even more surprised to hear Oliver’s voice after what feels like only a few minutes.

“What are you doing back so soon?” she asks, surprised. Her eyes are dry and her neck is sore but she thinks she’s close to cracking the phone if people would stop interrupting her.

“Soon? I was gone for six hours, Felicity.” Oliver sits in the chair beside her. “It’s almost two in the morning.”

“Oh,” she says blankly, her attention already back on the phone. “How did it go?”

“It was weird.”

She sighs. “You know, Oliver, just because McKenna’s in charge of finding me and bringing me to justice doesn’t mean you have to let it be weird —”

“No, not that,” he says, blushing. He has it _bad_ for her, and it's actually pretty endearing to see him so off-kilter. “Tommy’s dad showed up. It kinda put Tommy in a bad mood, and he ended dinner early, so McKenna and I went to see a movie.”

“So?”

“So, Malcolm was desperate for Tommy to come to some kind of humanitarian award thing —”

“Yeah, the Starling City Municipal Group’s Humanitarian of the Year award,” Felicity says, sitting up and finally focusing her attention on Oliver. He’s still dressed nicely from his dinner, and the shade of blue in his sweater really brings out the blue of his eyes. In the days since her near-death experience in the back of his car, she's gotten used to that strong magnetic pull she seems to feel around him. It's almost as if she's accepted it as part of his personality and nothing more, but there are odd moments, like right now, that she appreciates his presence _and_ the fact that he's an incredibly handsome guy.

“You’ve heard of that?” he asks, surprised.

“Yeah, almost every award winner has been on the List, Oliver,” she says, turning to one of her other screens and bringing up a list of past winners. “It’s one of the odd patterns I found when I was doing research a couple of weeks ago. They’re all awarded for donating money to hospitals or charities, which means they’re all rich.”

“That also means it’s totally normal for there to be overlap,” Oliver points out. “Rich people donate the most money… this List is made up of rich people…”

“No, Oliver, you’re not listening. Until tonight, only one other person has received this award _without_ being on the List.”

He stares at her, nonplussed. “Who?”

“Your dad. Robert Queen.”

 

* * *

 

Before she collapsed from exhaustion, Felicity was able to track down the phone’s last dialed phone number to the Jade Dragon restaurant downtown. She knows it’s a front for the Triad, so she makes a reservation for two for the next day, and she brings Oliver as her cover. He sits there easily, sniffing the fried fish with curiosity as they keep an eye out for any Triad activity. He has a knack for undercover work; she notices how he slouches a bit and hunches his shoulders, how he rests his hands loosely on his lap as he looks around the restaurant. He has a way of immersing himself into any situation, and she's not sure if that's something he picked up from growing up with privilege, of if it's specific to Oliver himself. Either way, she appreciates how easy he makes the excursion for her, and when she spots a particularly burly man heading into the back room, she only has to glance at Oliver meaningfully for him to get the message.

She sneaks into the back room and ambushes the two men who are clearly running some sort of money laundering operation. She brought along her voice changer to conceal her identity, and her Mandarin is good enough to fool the money counter after she squirts hot sauce in his eyes. All he knows is that the assassination is meant to happen the next day.

At a loss, she dials the burner phone for Detective Lance, but he’s less than accommodating of Felicity’s request for help in this case, mostly because she killed the first assassin, but also because she doesn’t know who the target is.

Frustrated, she returns to the foundry and continues her attempts to decrypt the phone. It takes her all day and well into the evening, long after Oliver’s left to go on another date with McKenna. Finally, just after eight o’clock, Felicity breaks through the encryption and is able to access the target of the assassination.

“Oh my God,” Diggle says, horrified, as Felicity leaps from her chair.

“Go find Oliver! Tell him to meet me at the award ceremony!” she yells as she grabs her leathers. She dials Lance’s burner phone as soon as she’s on her motorcycle, warning him that the target is Malcolm Merlyn, and that he needs to set up a perimeter.

She’s only three blocks away from the Merlyn Global building when Diggle’s voice comes over her bluetooth. “Oliver says Tommy is at the benefit tonight.”

She speeds up, cutting down an alley. “Copy that.”

She pulls up in time to see a well-dressed and slightly confused crowd streaming out of the building; she sends her grappling hook to the roof ledge and rappels her way up, crashing through a second-story window just in time to take out two gun-wielding assassins dressed as waiters. Tommy and his father are hiding behind a column, and she calls, “Go somewhere safe! I’ll hold them off!”

They run to safety just as Felicity turns and sees a face from her past: China White, clad in a white dress, is standing at the end of the hallway. “Why do you want Malcolm Merlyn dead?” Felicity bellows through her voice changer, but China White just smiles.

“I’ll settle for you.”

Their fight lasts a long time and involves shattered glass, takedowns, and shin kicks, but just as Felicity has China White cornered at arrow point, she’s interrupted by Oliver’s girlfriend, McKenna Hall, who is approaching slowly with her gun drawn.

That's when she takes the calculated risk of letting China White go; let her live to fight another day. So she shoots a fire extinguisher, filling the hall with thick chemicals, and uses the cover to run upstairs to Malcolm Merlyn’s office.

It looks like a bomb has gone off when she arrives. There’s a gaping hole in one of the windows, the floor is covered in shattered glass, and the only light is from the street outside. In a corner, Tommy is crouched over his father, who has been shot three times center-mass.

When Felicity steps on some of the broken glass, Tommy spins around with a handgun and yells for her to stay back.

“I’m not here to hurt you or your father!” Felicity says urgently as her eyes land on a shell casing on the ground. Only three bullets, and they all found their mark. She’s only encountered one sniper for hire who is that good. She bends down to pick one up, her hand outstretched to Tommy to keep him from shooting.

She’ll never forget the scent of curare.

“Your father’s been poisoned,” she tells Tommy, filling with dread as she realizes who the sniper must be. “An assassin named Floyd Lawton laces his bullets with curare. I’ve dealt with this before, you need to dilute the poison in his blood —”

“Stay back!” Tommy yells, shaking the gun warningly.

“In three minutes, he’s paralyzed," Felicity continues relentlessly. "In four, he suffocates. If you don’t let me help you now, he’s dead before anyone gets here!”

His eyes are wild. “Help? How?”

“Fresh blood buys him time to get to the hospital.”

Tommy casts a doubtful look at his father before turning back to Felicity with an incredulous expression. “A blood transfusion? That’s insane!”

“It’s the only way.” Felicity’s done it tons of times on the island, but she can see how it would be hard for Tommy to accept the reality of the situation. “He needs your blood. You need to decide right now.”

“Why should I trust you?” Tommy screams desperately, and before Felicity can try to come up with a credible response, another voice calls across the wrecked office.

“Trust me, Tommy.”

Tommy swings the gun around and points it right at his best friend. After a split second of realization, he drops the gun slowly and murmurs, “Oliver?”

“I trust the vigilante; you trust me. Do as he says,” Oliver says steadily, holding his hand out placatingly, just as Felicity had done a moment ago. “Save your father.”

Tommy glances between them anxiously, then looks down at his father once more. Malcolm is pale and clearly close to death, so Tommy makes the decision in an instant. “Okay. What do I do?”

Felicity retrieves a bag of medical supplies from a cabinet in the corner of Malcolm’s office. Wordlessly, she sets up the transfusion as the two men watch her movements, transfixed. She keeps her head bowed in order to leave her face in shadow, hoping to obscure her identity from Tommy.

While she and Oliver work, Tommy sits there stone-faced until Felicity inserts the needle into his arm. As soon as his blood flows through, she inserts the other end into Malcolm’s arm.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Oliver mutters, his eyes on Malcolm’s face, but Tommy’s watching Oliver.

“You’re working with the vigilante. Why?”

Oliver glances up at Felicity, then shakes his head. “Later,” he replies curtly.

Malcolm’s fingers wrap around Tommy’s hand, and when his eyelids start to flutter, Felicity stands up.

“Thank you,” Tommy whispers almost inaudibly. Felicity pauses at the window and nods once before she leaps.

 

* * *

 

She watches from the rooftop as Malcolm is loaded into the ambulance and driven away. Moira Queen is standing in the crowd, shivering in the slight drizzle in the wake of the ambulance. She’s striking in a blue dress, and even after the night’s ordeal, not a single hair is out of place.

Oliver’s beaten her back to the foundry when she gets there an hour later. He’s grim and quiet as Diggle greets Felicity with a warm smile.

“How does it feel to save a one percenter?” he asks jovially. “Malcolm’s been taken to Starling General. Good thing he was wearing a bulletproof vest.”

“He’s not in the hospital because he was shot,” Felicity says gravely, watching Diggle steadily. “He was poisoned by curare.”

Diggle’s eyes widen slightly, then narrow questioningly. When Felicity simply stares back at him, he moves away from her, his expression devastated. “Lawton’s alive.”

“I’m so sorry, John,” she says softly, his first name dropping like an anvil, but Diggle simply shakes his head and walks away.

Felicity watches him, fighting back tears as she tries to make sense of how Lawton survived an arrow to the eye. She almost forgets Oliver is there until he asks, “Who is Lawton?”

“He’s an assassin,” she answers quietly. “A sniper. And he killed Diggle’s brother.”

“Oh.”

Diggle disappears around a corner, presumably to be left alone, so Felicity takes a deep breath and turns back to Oliver. “How did it go at the hospital?”

He shakes his head. “Badly. Tommy’s furious with me.”

“Why?” she asks, surprised. “You helped save his dad’s life.”

“But he thinks you’re a killer,” Oliver says bluntly. “And he’s mad at me for not telling him who you are.”

She feels that soft warm glow inside her that seems to only happen when Oliver’s around. “You… didn’t tell him?”

He gives her an astonished look. “You thought I would?”

“He’s your best friend.”

He leans toward her. “And I made you a promise.”

She smiles up at him. “You know, you really held it together up there. Kept him calm, talked sense into him, didn’t faint at the sight of blood. Maybe you’re better suited for this life than you realize.”

He doesn’t take it as the compliment that she'd intended. “I did what I had to do to keep my best friend’s father alive. I’m here for one reason, Felicity. Don’t mistake this as anything more.”

But he strips his shirt off as he walks away, and he positions himself at the punching bag just as Diggle had taught him, with his weight evenly distributed and his feet planted shoulder-width apart. The sound of his punches on the canvas is like music to her ears.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, my gosh! It looks amazing!”

“Well… yeah!”

Felicity’s sitting at the bar at Verdant when she hears the distant voices of Oliver and McKenna from the front door. She’s been elbow-deep in paperwork for most of the evening, thanks to Tommy taking a few days off in the wake of his father's brush with death and Oliver’s revelation. If she never has to see an invoice again, she’ll be happy.

They’re one day away from the official opening of Verdant, and so far, everything seems to be going smoothly. Tommy has already hired a couple of seasoned bartenders, Oliver lined up some kind of quasi-famous DJ, and the last of the construction debris has been cleared away. The only things left on the to-do list are minimal, such as attaching the doors to the bathroom stalls and screwing in the lightbulbs over the private booths.

“So what do you say?” she hears Oliver ask in a flirty voice. “Will you be my date tomorrow night?”

“Is the opening of a nightclub a proper date?” McKenna asks just as flirtatiously as their voices draw nearer.

“I certainly hope so!” Oliver laughs, then pauses. “Felicity!”

She takes a moment to compose her friendliest smile before she turns around. Oliver and McKenna are standing ten feet away, and wow, they make a striking couple. McKenna’s even prettier in person, and Oliver’s still glowing as he stands beside her proudly.

“Hey, I was just catching up on the paperwork,” Felicity says brightly as McKenna stares at her interestedly. “You must be McKenna Hall. Oliver’s told me so much about you.”

“Not… that much…” Oliver mutters, blushing. Oh, this is fun.

“Yes, I am, and weirdly, Oliver hasn’t told me a whole lot about you,” McKenna replies, turning to Oliver with a teasing smile. “He’s not exactly forthcoming with his life details.”

“Yeah, he’s full of secrets,” Felicity agrees, but Oliver’s eyes widen in alarm, so she adds, “I’m Felicity Smoak. Co-owner of this fine establishment.”

“Well you should be proud, it looks fantastic!” McKenna says appreciatively, glancing around. “Hard to believe this was a steel factory.”

“Oh, this was mostly Oliver,” Felicity says offhandedly. “Like 90% Oliver. Give the people what they want — and he knows they want overpriced drinks and green decor.”

McKenna laughs, and Oliver still looks mostly uncomfortable but also slightly gratified by Felicity’s compliment as McKenna turns to him with a sweet smile. “I have to get back… Lance is kind of overzealous about this vigilante task team.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow night?” Oliver murmurs as Felicity turns back to her papers. She doesn’t hear McKenna’s answer, but she does catch them kissing in the reflection of the mirror behind the bar.

“It was nice to meet you, Felicity!” McKenna calls, and Felicity waves to her as she walks away.

Oliver perches on the barstool beside her and waits until the door shuts before muttering, “Wow, that was painful.”

“Oh come on, I gave you credit,” Felicity says mildly, perusing yet another invoice.

“No, I know that smile, Felicity, it’s the same smile you used to give me all the time when you thought I was a threat. I’ve told you over and over again, you’re not as good at lying as you think you are!”

She’s unnerved that he’s seemed to pick up on her tells, but then again, McKenna seemed completely at ease during their short conversation; it was Oliver who was tense and quiet. “She _is_ a threat, Oliver. She’s on the task force designed to take me down. Just last week, she had me in her sights in that hallway.”

“That’s when you’re in the hood. When you’re here, when you’re with me, you’re Felicity Smoak. You have to get better at this.”

“I’m not — that bad!” she says defensively. “Back off, Oliver.”

He’s saved a response by Diggle’s sudden appearance from a door behind the bar. “You two need to see this,” he says curtly.

Diggle's been distant since learning that Deadshot is still alive. He doesn't smile as much, and he often seems distracted by dark thoughts when Felicity catches him in a quiet moment, but he's still diligent in his work on the team. He's refused to talk about Deadshot with her, at least for the time being, so Felicity lets it hang between them.

When they get downstairs, Diggle shows them video surveillance footage from one of the strip clubs in the seedier part of Starling City. A woman dressed in black lingerie and thigh-high boots points a crossbow at one of the club patrons, her smile wide and vacant as she says something to the sweating man. “His name is Gus Sabatoni,” Diggle says just as the woman shoots the man in the neck.

Oliver looks horror-struck. “I know her.”

“How?”

“She’s… kind of an ex. Her name is Helena Bertinelli.” He clenches his jaw as he turns his head tensely. “We had a thing late last year, right after I got arrested… and she tried to kill her father.”

“Frank Bertinelli,” Felicity says, surprised. “His name is on the List, but I didn’t have to cross it off because he got arrested during the holidays.” She squints at Oliver. “Why did she want to kill her own dad?”

“Long story. He’s a crime lord and he had her fiance killed.” He winces. “I had to call in an anonymous tip to the police to keep her from killing her dad. She was… very angry with me.”

“And now she’s back,” Diggle says flatly as Felicity moves to her computer. “Any other psycho ex-girlfriends you need to warn us about?”

“Sabatoni was Frank Bertinelli’s lawyer,” Felicity reads from one of the press releases.

“Why did she want to kill his lawyer?” Oliver wonders. “It’s not like he did a good job — her father is serving multiple life sentences.”

“That doesn’t matter right now,” Felicity says firmly. “We need to find out why she’s back, and whether her new vendetta includes you.”

Oliver’s eyes widen. “She’s not — that crazy!”

Diggle looks incredulously from Oliver to Felicity. “Did this boy not _just_ watch a video of his ex-girlfriend shooting a man in cold blood?”

“Oliver, go home and be on your guard," Felicity says gravely. "I’m going to contact the Bratva and anyone else who might have information on her whereabouts.” 

He rolls his eyes like he thinks they’re being ridiculous, but Felicity can’t help but feel a little worried as her eyes land on the still of Helena standing over the dead lawyer’s body. Oliver leaves through the club, the door slamming loudly behind him, and Diggle mutters something about rich kids as Felicity stares at the young woman on her screen.

Helena Bertinelli appears not to have any connections to any of the crime syndicates in Starling City. It doesn’t surprise Felicity, since Helena is the scorned daughter of one of the biggest crime bosses in the city’s history, but it’s disheartening not to have a lead. She falls silent as she contemplates other ways to find out why Helena is here, and she briefly considers calling Lance before she remembers his anti-vigilante task force, led by McKenna Hall.

Diggle senses her disquiet in her silence, shooting her a sidelong glance as he says, “Out with it.”

She shifts in her chair and pretends to focus on the computer. “Am I bad at lying?”

He ponders it for a minute. “I don’t know. You’re good at deception — an entire city thinks you’re a man. That’s pretty damn good.”

She looks at him beseechingly, and he gives her a little smile. “Why are you asking?”

“Oliver keeps telling me that I’m a horrible liar —”

“Oh, _Oliver_ tells you that?” Diggle’s booming laugh fills the lair. “Well yeah, that’s because you suck at lying to him.”

She’s afraid to ask the question, afraid of exposing something about herself that she hasn’t even puzzled out. But she trusts Diggle, he’s her closest confidante, so quietly, she asks, “Why?”

“I don’t know why,” he says gently. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s because of that blind spot you have with him. It doesn’t matter anyway, he’s in on your big secret, for better or for worse.”

But she’s uncomfortable with having someone in her life that seems to be under her skin so effortlessly. Oliver doesn’t even seem to realize the effect he has on her — that he’s basically her human lie detector — and how much that freaks her out.

She’s startled by her phone ringing shrilly on the table beside her, glowing with Oliver’s cell phone number.

“She was in my house,” he growls. “I came home and she was talking to Thea in my living room. She is here to kill her father because he’s turned state’s witness.”

“Okay, Oliver, calm down —”

“She threatened my family if I didn’t help her!” Felicity pulls the phone away from her ear as Oliver practically shouts. “I want Diggle to hire some security to guard my mother and sister now!”

“He will, just relax. Is she gone?”

“Yes, but —”

“Then come back to the club and we’ll figure this out, okay?” she says bracingly. “You’re on this team now — you don’t have to handle it alone.”

She hears him inhale deeply. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

He texts her half an hour later, _Upstairs at the bar. Trying to talk to Tommy._ Diggle’s still on the phone arranging security for the Queens, so Felicity sneaks upstairs to try to rescue Oliver from an uncomfortable conversation. As she approaches the bar, Oliver’s distraught voice gives her pause, and she takes cover behind a column.

“… I’m keeping this a secret to protect the people closest to me!”

“You think that’s what I care about?” Tommy’s voice is low, barbed. “That my feelings are hurt? You’re helping a _murderer_.”

Her blood runs cold at the word. She feels even worse when Oliver doesn’t answer.

“A killer, Oliver. You are my best friend, but lately it feels like I don’t even know you!”

Felicity fights tears as she strains to listen for Oliver’s reply. Finally, in an affected voice, he says, “You’re right. I’ve changed. But I can explain —”

“What would be the point? I wouldn’t believe a word of it anyway.”

Tommy’s footsteps fade away as Felicity blinks back tears. She’s always liked Tommy — always considered him under her protection thanks to his connection to Laurel and the Queens — and she’s always thought of him as a rather easy-going guy. The fact that he’s so condemning of her actions, even to go as far as judging Oliver for helping her…

She never had the luxury of having her feelings hurt when she was on the island. Sometimes she thinks it was easier that way.

 

* * *

 

Helena doesn’t make a move against Oliver or anyone else before the opening night of Verdant. Felicity entreats Oliver to act as if everything is normal, and he grins and bears it as best he can.

“My mom just said she’s proud of me,” Oliver tells Felicity about an hour into the opening party, having just found her on the edge of the dance floor. He has to lean in close to be heard over the DJ, and Felicity can feel his breath on her ear as he says, “It was shocking.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m still avoiding her,” Felicity yells back. “I’ve made it this long —”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Felicity,” he says, scowling. “It would be improper if you didn’t meet her — it’ll only make her think you have something to hide. Come on.”

He takes her by the elbow and leads her through the crowd and upstairs to one of the tables where a small group of people is gathered. Oliver releases her arm as McKenna gives Felicity a bright smile of recognition, and Felicity’s returning smile is nervous and strained as she turns her eyes to the small but imposing blonde woman standing beside Thea.

“McKenna, Thea, you remember my business partner, Felicity Smoak,” Oliver says loudly but pleasantly. “And this is my mother, Moira Queen.”

Moira’s eyes seem to go right through Felicity. In a fraction of a second, she thinks Moira must have the measure of her, even before Felicity’s said, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Smoak,” Moira says evenly. “My husband, Walter, speaks highly of you.”

Everyone shifts uncomfortably at the mention of Walter, and Felicity feels her good mood evaporating as Moira’s eyes bore into hers. She can’t help but remember the last time she stood this close to Moira, when there was only a desk and an arrow between them.

“This is an amazing club,” Thea breaks in earnestly. “You both did an amazing job.” She takes care to address Felicity, which Felicity takes as an apology of sorts for the last time she and Thea spoke all those months ago. She grins back at the young woman gratefully.

“Thank you. Most of the work was done by your brother here,” Felicity says, patting Oliver’s bicep good-naturedly. “Well, he and Tommy.”

“Where is Tommy?” Thea asks interestedly. “I wanted to ask him if he called that guy back about the valet spot…”

“He’s down at the bar,” Oliver says shortly.

Thea grabs her drink to make her way to the bar, and after waiting a beat, Moira says, “I think I see a friend of mine, please excuse me.” But her parting glance at Felicity is as invasive as ever.

At least the worst part is over.

The rest of the opening night goes off without a hitch. The DJ finishes his set around 2AM and weary clubgoers file out into the night, heading for home or for after-parties. Felicity holes herself up in the stock room, determined to avoid Moira as she takes inventory of the liquor they’d served that night.

She feels it’s safe to emerge about half an hour after the bartenders were dismissed, and she’s pleased to hear Oliver’s voice as she comes down the stairs.

“… don’t know how you expect me to help you!”

“Help you with what?” Felicity asks brightly as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, only to come face-to-face with Helena Bertinelli.

“Get out, get out!” Oliver barks from just in front of the bar, raising his eyebrows at her in some sort of warning. Diggle is standing beside him, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, which means he’s unarmed. Oliver takes a step toward her and says, “This is a… private matter, Felicity.”

She stares between Diggle, who looks so tense that he might snap, and Oliver, who appears to be trying to send her some sort of non-verbal message. His eyebrows are still raised significantly, and his eyes keep darting toward the basement door…

“Oh… kay…” she says slowly, backing away. “See ya.”

They all watch her until she gets to the front door; Helena is smirking at her knowingly, her blue eyes alight with deviousness.

When Felicity makes it outside, she breaks into a sprint, running all the way around the building to the alleyway entrance to the basement. It takes her less than a minute to gear up, but she can’t just burst into Verdant, Helena will figure out who she is. Instead, she heads back to the front entrance of the club and takes cover among the cars in the parking lot, hoping Oliver has enough sense to walk Helena out through the front door.

Sure enough, only ten minutes later, the trio emerges from the darkened club. Oliver and Diggle are walking a pace behind Helena, whose victorious grin is illuminated by the orange glow of the streetlights.

Felicity waits until Helena passes her hiding place before she pounces.

The fight doesn’t last long. Helena possesses the same peculiar strength as the Count, where her passion makes up for some of her inabilities, but ultimately she is untrained and her skills are unrefined. Felicity finally corners her against a car and has her bow drawn, ready to rid themselves of this problem once and for all.

But Oliver shouts and comes to stand between them.

“Get out of my way, kid!” Felicity barks through her voice changer.

“Don’t do this!” Oliver yells, putting his hand up toward Felicity. “She’s not evil! She’s lost. Her father killed her fiance in cold blood. You must know what it’s like to want revenge!”

Felicity bares her teeth and adjusts her grip menacingly. “Get out of my way.”

“You can’t kill her! She needs help,” he pleads. “You’re not a cold-blooded killer. Please.”

Felicity hates him in that moment. If she relents now, she shows weakness to Helena, but if she kills her, Oliver will never forgive her. Helena’s already smirking behind Oliver, her face bloodied and bruised, but there’s nothing for it. Felicity can’t kill her against Oliver’s express wishes.

“Bind her hands behind her back!” she barks. “Take her to the police station. They’ll charge her for her crimes.”

Helena sneers as Diggle hurries over with a zip tie and binds her hands. Felicity waits until she’s loaded into Oliver’s car before she sweeps away.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell were you thinking?” Felicity thunders hours later as morning sunlight streams into the foundry. “You could’ve been killed — you could’ve gotten me killed!”

“Easy,” Diggle says calmly, crossing his arms as he stands between Oliver and Felicity.

“You can’t just go around killing people!” Oliver yells back. “I told you, it’s not gonna work like that!”

“Last time I checked, this was _my_ team!” Felicity retorts. “I call the shots, not you!”

“And I told you that I’m not here to kill people! If you want me to be on this team, you need to rethink your tactics!”

“We have a problem!” Diggle interrupts, tearing toward the computers as one of the screens blinks red. “Dammit. She escaped.”

“Who did?” Oliver asks.

“Helena. Evaded police custody during transport from the station. She’s on the loose.”

“She’s not a danger to us!” Oliver argues, his whole face screwed up with emotion. “She’s just —”

“Lost, yeah, we heard you,” Felicity snaps. “I hope for all of our sakes that you’re right!”

 

* * *

 

He turns out to be very, very wrong.

Felicity’s working late the next night at Queen Consolidated when she gets an alert about a robbery at a local sporting goods store. The robber stole a high-powered crossbow.

She dials Oliver’s number on her office phone and has only gotten as far as, “Oliver, it’s me,” when she glances up to find a masked Helena Bertinelli standing in her office doorway.

“Hi. I don’t think I had a chance to properly introduce myself the other night,” Helena says sweetly. “I’m Helena Bertinelli, and I have a bone to pick with your boyfriend.”

Felicity could fight, but this fight would have to end with Helena’s death, and she's not sure Oliver would ever forgive her for that. Instead, she rolls the dice and banks on Helena underestimating her. She hangs up the phone and holds up her hands, pretending to be scared.

“You’re an IT specialist — I bet you can hack into the FBI database,” Helena says in a sugary voice. “How about you find out where they’re keeping my father, and I let you keep your life?”

It’s child’s play, really, because Felicity had already found the address last night, just in case. But she makes a show of trembling and crying as she hacks into the FBI database once more, all while Helena points the crossbow at her temple. When she accesses the address, she writes it down for a triumphant Helena, who then binds her hands and legs and forces her to the ground behind her desk.

“Tell Oliver I thought he was into stronger women,” Helena sneers before she leaves.

Felicity waits for the stairwell door to close before breaking her binds, scoffing, “Weak woman, my ass.”

Now she knows exactly where to intercept the crazy bitch.

 

* * *

 

Two of the guards at the safehouse are already dead by crossbow arrows to the chest when Felicity gets there. Cursing, she bursts into the house through a second-story window and diverts Helena just as she’s ready to take out four more guards. She swings around and points a shotgun at Felicity as another window breaks across the hall.

“No!” Helena shouts as her father, dressed in a prison orange jumpsuit, leaps through the window. She chases after him, and Felicity follows suit, catching a glimpse of Frank hobbling toward the trees at the edge of the property as she leaps down from the window and lands lightly on the ground. Helena runs to the middle of the yard before coming to a halt, crying out as her father is swallowed by darkness.

Felicity draws her bow, but Helena’s feral as she spins around and kicks Felicity’s legs out from under her. Felicity lands hard on her back, but leaps back up and engages Helena as she fights harder than ever. They land on the ground, and Felicity manages to throw Helena over and jump to her feet in time to draw her bow once more. “Enough!” she shouts.

“Freeze!”

She recognizes McKenna Hall’s voice in the distance.

“Put it down!” the detective commands, inching closer. “And turn around. Slowly.”

Her mind racing as her eyes stay on Helena, Felicity slowly lowers her bow to the ground. Just as she lets go, Helena dives for her shotgun and aims it past Felicity at McKenna.

“No!” Felicity screams as the gun fires, but it’s too late. Helena scrambles away as McKenna falls on the ground, her leg bleeding profusely as she falls unconscious.

“No — McKenna!” Felicity yells, hurrying over to the detective’s side, but she’s unresponsive.

Sirens in the distance snap her out of her reverie, and she hurries back to her motorcycle, zooming away as she tries to figure out how to tell Oliver what happened.

 

* * *

 

Oliver comes to see her the next morning in her office. She stares up at him soberly as he shuts the door behind him, his eyes full of misery.

“How is she?”

“Shattered femur,” he says thickly, sitting in the chair in front of her. “A year of rehab. She’s… she’s moving to Coast City.” He buries his face in his hands.

“I’m so sorry, Oliver…”

“It’s not your fault,” he says vehemently. “It’s mine. If I’d just let you… none of this would’ve happened.”

She shakes her head and moves to sit in the seat beside Oliver, patting his knee comfortingly. “Oliver, you… you believe the best in people. It’s an amazing quality that you should hold on to. It doesn’t just apply to people like McKenna or Tommy… it applies to people like Helena and… me.”

He gives her a watery look of surprise, and she smiles at him softly. “Without people like you, people like me, we lose hope too fast. We get too consumed in our own darkness. We need you to remind us that there is light.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not as dark as you think you are, Felicity.”

“Maybe not. But who besides you is gonna tell me that?”


	14. sometimes we lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This guy has some pretty complex encryption on his website,” Felicity mutters irritably. “He definitely has more than a subscription to _Wired_.”
> 
> “Use that air magnet thing, you said it —”
> 
> “Oliver!” she snaps. “No offense, but do I tell you how to be an assistant to the CEO?”

In the wake of his breakup with McKenna, Oliver takes to hanging from the rafters of the foundry. Literally. Felicity would be irritated by this, except he’s doing it shirtless, and she doesn’t _totally_ hate the view. 

He had been strong before, with the sort of muscles he had built from bench pressing and weight lifting, but he’s been on Diggle’s workout regimen for the last six weeks, and his body is transformed. He’s bulkier and stronger, his core strength is improved, and he’s even able to make it to the top of Felicity’s salmon ladder as of two days ago. Diggle has even reported an improvement in Oliver’s hand-to-hand combat skills, though, "He still sucks at Wing Chun, but that will come with time.”

She’s on her computer very late on a Friday night in April as Oliver dangles from the rafter just above her, grunting with effort as he does inverted sit-ups. She turns up the volume on the Channel 7 news, attempting to drown out the noises as she listens to the report on a building that burned down last night.

“Ever since that Lynns case, I always think a building fire is arson at first,” Diggle mutters darkly from beside her as he squints at the far left computer, which is running facial recognition for Floyd Lawton, just like it has been ever since the night Malcolm Merlyn had been shot.

“This is just as bad,” Felicity says wearily. “The wiring in that building wasn’t up to code. The real estate developer is John Nickel, he’s about as dirty as they come. This screams of cutting corners for costs.”

“I remember him,” Oliver says, dropping down from the rafter and landing heavily just behind Felicity. “Seven people have frozen to death in three of his buildings over the last few years.”

“You gotta focus on your center of gravity when you do that,” Diggle interrupts irritably, his eyes narrowed at Oliver. “Land lightly, like a cat, or you’ll end up with a broken ankle.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “Like you know anything about landing lightly, Digg, you’re pure muscle. I’m pretty sure you have bowling balls for biceps.”

“And yet, I’ve never broken an ankle when dropping from ridiculous heights,” Diggle argues.

“Yeah because no one ever breaks an ankle landing on _sand_ in Afghanistan —”

“Enough, children,” Felicity says loudly, gesturing at the picture of John Nickel on her computer. “The DA has been ignoring this, and the police can’t do anything because all of these slums are in the Glades.” She holds up her book and stares up at Oliver. “I say we cross his name off the list. Is that okay, Oliver?”

He glances from the book to the footage of Nickel leaving the courthouse earlier today, then back at Felicity. “Yes.”

She shuts the book with a satisfied smile and leaves to hood up.

Unfortunately, when she gets to Nickel’s apartment only half an hour later, she finds someone’s already been there. His living room is wrecked, a window is broken, and there’s a butcher knife on the floor.

“He was just gone?” Oliver asks disbelievingly when she gets back to the foundry.

“No! Not gone! Taken!” Felicity corrects angrily.

“Maybe Nickel was on someone else’s list,” Diggle suggests.

“After the fire last night, that’s not surprising.” She growls, frustrated. “I’ll do some research on Nickel, write up a list of people who lost loved ones in the fire —”

“He’s a slumlord, Felicity, it’s gonna end up being a list of everyone who’s ever lived in one of his properties,” Oliver says. “Besides…”

He trails off uncomfortably, and Diggle crosses his arms as he stands between them, his expression wary.

“What?” Felicity snaps.

“Nothing! It’s just — you went over there to threaten him and possibly kill him, and now you want to rescue him?”

“I don’t like the idea that somebody dangerous is out there,” she says shortly, then scowls when Oliver shoots her a significant look. “Somebody _else_ ,” she amends grudgingly. “Because typically, they're not as cuddly as I am.”

She ignores Oliver's scoff as she drops into her chair to start her research, but Diggle asks, “Why don’t we all get some breakfast? Take a break for an hour or so.”

“No time for a break,” she says curtly. “Whoever took Nickel took him alive. That tells me he’s on some kind of timeline. The sooner I get a read on him, the better.”

“Fine. _We_ are going to the diner on the corner for breakfast. I’ll bring you back a big stack of waffles,” Diggle says, and Felicity waves them away distractedly.

She doesn’t know how long they’re gone — could be five minutes, could be two hours — when her far right computer starts playing a video of its own accord, streaming from a website titled ‘Glades Betrayed.’ She’s startled to see John Nickel, bound and gagged in what looks to be a dark room as he’s being filmed on a cell phone camera. She watches in mute horror as a disembodied voice crackles over the recording.

_“If you make the Glades your home, you know who this man is: John Nickel. He owns your tenements, manages your slums, provides the leaking roofs over your heads, the lead in your pipes, the asbestos in your walls, basically he makes money off of our suffering. The police aren’t interested in helping us. They may have let us down, but I won’t. John, I want to give you the chance to state your case. Why shouldn’t you be punished?”_

Felicity pauses from her furious attempts to track the video signal and watches as the duct tape on Nickel’s mouth is torn away. _“I knew there were bad things in my buildings!”_ he says desperately. _“But at least they had a place to live! People like that would be on the streets without me!”_

_“People like who?”_ thunders the disembodied voice as Felicity’s phone rings.

“Everyone is watching this video at the diner —” Oliver starts.

“I know, I’m tracking it!” she yells, putting the phone on speaker. “It’s streaming on every IP originating in the Glades!”

“It’s too late.”

Felicity glances back at the video as the voice says, _“John Nickel, I find you guilty.”_ She winces as two shots ring out, and then the camera turns. _“There are plenty more people to answer for their crimes against us. So who’s next?”_

Shaking from anger, she turns back to her middle computer as the right screen goes blank. She refocuses her efforts on hacking into the website to try to back-trace the guy from there, but when Diggle and Oliver arrive fifteen minutes later, she’s still tapping away furiously at her keyboard.

“Anything new?” Oliver asks as Diggle walks past them, his cell phone to his ear.

“This guy has some pretty complex encryption on his website,” Felicity mutters irritably. “He definitely has more than a subscription to _Wired_.”

“Use that air magnet thing, you said it —”

“Oliver!” she snaps. “No offense, but do I tell you how to be an assistant to the CEO?”

He huffs as Diggle hangs up his phone and reports, “My friend at the NSA says the website code matches a cyber crusader who’s been on their radar. He hacks into fringe sites under the name ‘The Savior.’ Apparently he’s a former resident of the Glades.”

“Former?” Oliver repeats as Felicity’s right-hand computer comes back to life.

_“We’re back. I have with me, assistant district attorney Gavin Carnahan. Now DA’s are supposed to go after bad guys, but this one can’t even be bothered to bring them to trial, like the ones who went after my wife at a bodega —”_

She immediately searches the internet for reports on deaths in bodegas in the Glades, and it brings up a single article from the Starling City Sentinel about Emma Falk, who was killed during a bodega heist a year ago today. She’s survived by Joseph Falk, but he’s been off the grid since then. “No current phone or current address,” Diggle says quickly.

On the video, Joseph Falk delivers an ultimatum: Carnahan has ten minutes to plead his case and escape death. He sets a watch in front of the camera lens, and Oliver lets out a growl of frustration, but Felicity’s finally locked into his wireless signal and jumps up.

“I got him, he’s at the corner of 26th and Myra,” she says, running for her leathers.

“Felicity, you can’t hood up! It’s the middle of the morning!” Diggle shouts after her.

“I’ll just wear my helmet —”

“No, it’s too risky, you’ll look like a —” he gestures stupidly at her body, “— a woman. You’ll blow your cover.”

“I can’t just _not go_ —” she starts, but Oliver cuts her off.

“I’ll go. I have my bike, I have my helmet, and you’ll be in my ear the whole time, it’s perfect.” He's already halfway to the alley entrance when Felicity registers what he's intending to do.

“Oliver, this could require you to kill Joseph Falk. I don’t think you have the stomach for it,” she says baldly.

“Maybe not!” he says angrily, snatching one of the spare handguns Diggle keeps in a drawer along with a bluetooth, “But I can stop him from killing Gavin Carnahan.”

Before she or Diggle can react, he runs outside. Diggle shakes his head and mutters, “On the team provisionally, huh?”

She sighs and inserts the other bluetooth in her ear as Diggle leans in behind her. Carnahan is not doing a very good job of making his case, but Felicity’s more concerned with her newest team member. She’d never envisioned sending one of her teammates out in her stead, and she’s not sure this is the best case for Oliver to get his feet wet.

“How’s Carnahan?” Oliver asks six minutes later.

“He’s not making a very good case,” Felicity says quickly.

“I’m here!”

She listens to his heavy breathing, then hears the sound of glass shattering. “Do you see anything?”

“I’m only on the first floor!” he responds as he crashes through something.

“Only six more to go,” she says bracingly, her eyes on the video stream as Carnahan continues to sob out his pleas. “Oliver, hurry.”

Another 45 seconds of crashes and labored breathing, and then, “I can’t find him!” There’s a loud metallic clang and then Oliver shouts, “He’s not here!”

“What?”

“I’m on the roof, I searched every room, he’s not here! Are you sure this is the right address?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” she replies, refreshing the signal, but then the screen moves northwest by two blocks; the signal has changed locations. “Oh, shit.”

“What? Talk to me!”

“His signal’s moved. Just northwest of you, Ocean and Grant,” Felicity says, her stomach churning as she tries to figure out how the signal moved so far so quickly.

“On my way!” Oliver yells, and she and Diggle watch the video tensely as Falk threatens Carnahan, the seconds ticking down to zero as Oliver’s heavy breathing issues from the bluetooth.

“Oliver…” she starts.

_“Gavin Carnahan, I find you guilty of crimes against the Glades —”_

“Felicity! There’s nothing here, it’s a vacant lot!”

“That’s not possible —”

_“— and I sentence you to death.”_

“Find the right address, now!” Oliver screams desperately as two shots ring out. Felicity flinches — whether at the shots or the sound of Oliver’s voice, she’s not sure — and rips out the bluetooth, furious with herself. She tosses it onto the desk as she stands up and strides away, resisting the urge to let out a feral scream.

“Oliver,” she hears Diggle murmur gently. “It’s over. Carnahan is dead.”

And she’s glad she doesn’t have to hear Oliver’s reply to that.

 

* * *

 

Oliver trudges into the foundry over an hour later, his eyes red and his shoulders hunched. Felicity’s sent Diggle to Big Belly Burger for some shakes, figuring they could all use a break, and she’s sitting alone at her table of arrows when Oliver comes in.

“Oliver, what happened isn’t your fault.”

He blinks quickly, staring at the ground. “I’ve never… been that close to death before. Never felt like if I’d just been faster, better…”

“Hey,” she says softly, and she waits for him to look up at her. His eyes are even more brilliantly blue now than ever as he fights tears, and she can’t help but feel responsible for the guilt he’s experiencing right now. “It's just... something you'll have to get used to. We aren't always going to be quick enough, or smart enough, or good enough. This is the thing… with what we do. Sometimes we lose.”

He turns away, some of the tears falling now, and she feels like an intruder on his grief. She stares down at her arrows, which have killed so many people, and pretends not to see Oliver’s weakness as he grapples with something she overcame years ago on an inhospitable island.

And a small part of her is a little scared that this broke him, that he won't want to be part of the team anymore. She never should've let him go out there. 

“It's my fault, what happened to McKenna,” he says unexpectedly, sniffling surreptitiously. “I shouldn't have underestimated Helena... Should've warned McKenna about her...”

“McKenna is a police officer, Oliver," Felicity says firmly. “She put on that badge every day knowing that she was in imminent danger. And besides, if it's anyone's fault, it's mine.”

He shakes his head miserably, and Felicity fixes her eyes on the ground, holding her breath. She's positive that he's going to say  _This is all too much, I can't do this anymore, I quit_ , and a little piece of her soul will go with him when he walks out the door. 

“Maybe you were right,” he says thickly. “Maybe it is better being alone. I don’t know how I would’ve told McKenna about today.”

Startled, she glances back up at him, but he’s already turned and walked away.

 

* * *

 

He’s quiet for the rest of the day, even as they prep to open the club that evening. Tommy’s working at the bar moodily, still not speaking to Oliver, which is awkward for Felicity, since Tommy is perfectly pleasant with her.

“How’s Laurel?” Felicity asks as Tommy goes through the liquor bottles behind the bar for inventory. “You don’t talk about her much anymore.”

“She’s good,” he says uncomfortably. “She, um. She went through this thing with her parents last week…” He glances up at her through his thick eyelashes. “Her mom thought she found evidence that Sara was alive.”

Felicity blanches; it’s the first time she’s shown real emotion in front of Tommy, but she hadn’t expected to hear him talk about Sara, or say her name so intimately. It’s easy to forget that they were all friends before the island. She clears her throat, aware that Tommy is watching her closely, and asks, “Evidence?”

“A picture,” he says quietly, his eyes straying to Oliver, who is supervising the setup for the DJ booth across the room. “A woman wearing a hat like one Sara used to wear. Her head was down. Easy mistake to make.”

Felicity nods, swallowing the lump in her throat as Tommy stares at her strangely. She’d like to say it’s been ages since she thought of Sara, but the truth is, Sara appears in her dreams and nightmares all the time. They all do.

“Anyway, Laurel had to go track down the actual woman in the picture to get her mom to stop. It was a painful process for her.”

But he’s still looking at her peculiarly, and she finally figures out what he’s not asking. “I saw her drown, Tommy,” she says softly, and it’s not a lie. Not completely. “I… relive it, constantly. And she couldn’t have survived that. I’m sorry.”

He nods, his expression clearing as he turns away. “Don’t be sorry, I just — I’ve been going through some stuff, too, I haven’t been the greatest boyfriend —”

“It’s happening again!” one of the waiters shouts from the other end of the bar, turning up the volume on the flatscreen mounted to the wall. The Channel 7 news reporter looks grim as he addresses the residents of the city.

_“More on the story out of the Glades. The kidnapper seems to have another victim and is broadcasting the feed to his website. A warning to viewers: this is live footage, so we’re not sure what we’re about to see.”_

It switches to the video feed where Falk’s modified voice issues out over the image of a young man with a bloodied temple. Felicity shoots Oliver an alarmed look as everyone gathers around the screen.

_“Meet Roy Harper. Arrests, larceny, robbery, aggravated assault, and yet you’re out in the street, another gang-banger in the Glades, running free like the ones who killed my wife. I grew up in the Glades, too, and it didn’t turn me into a criminal.”_

“I know that kid,” Tommy says unexpectedly, his expression stricken as he turns to Oliver.

“How?” Oliver asks as Felicity stands up straighter, studying the young man on the screen.

“He interviewed for a valet position… because Thea —”

“Ollie!” Thea comes running in, her mascara running and her hair in disarray. She appears to be covered in dirt as she stares at the television, then claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh God, no!”

“Thea?” Oliver asks gently, turning his sister toward him. “You know him?”

“I didn’t know where else to go! He’s Roy — he’s my friend — some guy came out of nowhere and just attacked us, but he doesn’t deserve to die!” she says hysterically, choking back sobs. There’s a group of about fifteen people gathered now, so Felicity uses the chaos to edge away toward the basement door.

“Thea, I promise he’ll be okay. Stay here with Tommy, all right?” she hears Oliver say as she sneaks through the door and hurries down the stairs.

Diggle’s already down there monitoring the decryption of the website, but with no success. She sits down heavily and pulls up the videos again, hoping for a fresh perspective, but there’s nothing besides an odd rhythmic sound buried in the ambient noise.

“Anything?” Oliver asks loudly as she hurries down the stairs.

“Nothing except this sound!” she says frustratedly, playing the isolated sound for both men to hear.

Oliver frowns. “What is that? It sounds like a car driving over lane markers.”

“It has to be bigger than a car,” Felicity says.

“What, like a bus?”

“No.”

Diggle nods his head in time with the beat. “I know this sound… wait, Felicity, pull up a map of all the abductions.” She obliges quickly, and he studies the dots and exclaims, “Those are all subway stops!”

“Starling City doesn’t have a subway,” Oliver says shortly.

“No, but they used to. When I was a kid, my dad used to take me down to the Rockets games by subway. For fourteen minutes, I leaned against the window, feeling the rhythm of the train moving.”

“That’s how he did it!” Felicity exclaims. “That’s why I couldn’t trace the signal, he was moving! He was in a subway car!” She jumps up and grabs her bow and hood. “Oliver, you go back upstairs and be with your sister, but take the bluetooth. Digg, talk me in.”

They both nod as she dashes behind the metal partition to change into her leathers.

She gets to the Spring Street stop just in time for the subway train to pass. She rappels into the abandoned tunnel and lands just as the train approaches, and she swings on just in time.

It takes her a couple of minutes to find the right car, and she loops down from the roof and through the window, sending shattered glass everywhere as she tosses one of her throwing stars at the tape binding Roy to the pole of the car. She draws her bow and aims at Falk, who is holding his gun unsteadily.

“Let the kid go!” she yells through the modifier, but Falk just shakes his head. “If you kill him, he’ll never get an opportunity to change! You can give him a second chance!”

Falk glances back at Roy, then turns back to Felicity. “We’re the only ones who can save this city! We can’t stop now!”

“We’re not the same!” Felicity screams, striving to keep Falk distracted as Roy works at his bindings.

“You’ve killed people for this city! So have I! What’s the difference between you and me? Emma never got a second chance. You have no idea how lonely it is!”

Her heart drops like a stone as his words hit close to him. “I understand being alone, but it doesn’t give you the right to kill people in cold blood,” Felicity says slowly.

“He deserves it! He’s just like the gangbangers who gunned her down, he’s no different from them!” Falk cries as Roy finally wrests one arm free. “And now I get to gun him down.”

“No!” Felicity yells as Falk swings his gun around, but Roy ducks just in time as Felicity releases an arrow into Falk’s back. It pierces him through, and he turns, stunned, back to Felicity and drops his gun.

Roy, crouched on the ground, looks up at Felicity gratefully before hoisting himself up onto one of the seats. That’s when she leaps through the window and lands neatly beside the tracks, watching the train hurtle away.

 

* * *

 

She’s back at the club, dressed in a cocktail gown and standing at the railing upstairs, when Roy wanders in looking dazed. She watches as Thea dashes across the dance floor and wraps her arms around his neck, crying. He hugs her tightly and buries his face in her hair.

Felicity glances up at Oliver, whose expression is stony as he stands beside her. “This is a victory, Oliver,” she says over the music. “We took down the bad guy and saved Thea’s boyfriend.”

“You didn’t see the stream.” He stares darkly at Roy below him as the younger man pulls one of Felicity’s arrows from inside his jacket and turns it in his fingertips. “He was ready to die. He didn’t want a second chance.”

“And you didn’t see his face when I shot Falk, Oliver,” she replies. “He was grateful. He was relieved. He didn’t really want to die.”

“You changed his mind?” he asks dubiously.

“No. Falk was right. I’m a cold-blooded killer like him. I just have a different agenda.” She crosses her arms, hugging herself tightly as she remembers how she felt when Falk pointed out their similarities, as she recalls Tommy’s condemning words to Oliver a few days ago. “I don’t think I’ll be changing anyone’s mind about that.”

Oliver turns to her with sympathetic eyes. “You saved my sister the grief of losing another loved one. I think you’re changing more minds than you think.”

She grins up at him gratefully. She's glad he's staying, that the events of the day haven't wavered his (provisional) allegiance to the team. “You were wrong, you know. It’s not easier to be alone. Doing what I do… it’s pretty lonely.”

He furrows his brow. “You’re realizing this now? Why?”

She hunches her shoulders as she stares down at the dance floor. “Falk said something that made me realize… I don’t want to be on an island anymore.” She blushes deep crimson at the declaration.

Oliver nods slowly, pressing his lips together in something akin to approval. After a beat, Felicity looks up at Oliver earnestly.

“And if you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me.”

It’s not until he smiles that she realizes she’s missed it. He hasn’t smiled much since McKenna was injured, and this weekend was particularly hard on him, but he’s almost radiant now as he beams at her. “Thanks,” he says softly.

 

* * *

 

Diggle’s perched on the edge of her computer desk, his netbook open to the security feed, when they get down to the basement a few minutes later. “Thea’s friend is upstairs.” He says it lightly, but Felicity can sense the edge in his voice, and just by his elbow, she sees that the facial recognition software still hasn't found a match for Floyd Lawton. He hasn't been away from that computer for more than a couple of hours at a time, and she can see it's starting to take its toll. 

“I saw,” Oliver says shortly, leaning against the medical supply table as Felicity assumes her throne in front of her computers. She rubs her face with her hands, letting out a deep sigh. It’s been a long weekend, and she’s emotionally drained.

“You okay?” Diggle asks.

“Getting there. Thanks.” She spins in her chair as Diggle goes back to watching the security feeds. Intending to get back to tracking down Lawton, she starts clearing out the windows from the Falk case: articles, files, statistics, maps —

“Wait, what is that?” Oliver asks suddenly, pointing at a multicolored map just before Felicity closes it.

“It’s an old map of the decommissioned subway line,” Diggle says from behind them. “I had Felicity pull it up. It runs underneath the low-rent district of the city, where I used to live.” He says it nostalgically, but Felicity’s attention is on Oliver, who has turned pale.

“I’ve seen this map,” he says quietly, grabbing Felicity’s copy of the List. He flips it open to the first page and sets it down in front of her, pointing at the odd criss-crossed glyph etched into the front page. “It was right in front of our faces the whole time.”

“Your dad, the Dark Archer, the Undertaking,” Felicity breathes, holding up the book. “It’s all connected to the Glades!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for your kind and constructive comments on this fic. I'm sorry I took so long to post this chapter -- it was sitting on my hard drive, completely written, for weeks, but it was proving tricky to edit. Thank you for your patience!


	15. not everyone deserves mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought the vigilante finished off the Count,” she hears Tommy say accusingly.
> 
> Oliver doesn’t even hesitate. “He did.”

For six frustrating days, Felicity, Diggle, and Oliver struggle to make sense of the glyph in the front of Robert Queen’s book. Figuring out that it’s a map of the now-defunct subway line under the Glades had felt like a big discovery at first, but all it’s done is made them more confused. “It’s not like the lines Falk used to scramble the signal,” Diggle says, discouraged. “These lines are blocked off, no trains are in them or can get into them, you can really only access them by foot.”

“But they must mean something,” Felicity replies.

“Maybe they’re just symbolic,” Oliver suggests, but it’s a weak suggestion and he knows it. Nothing Robert Queen did in his lifetime was symbolic or metaphorical.

They spend endless hours trying to make sense of it, but in the end, Felicity has to set it aside and focus on her two other jobs along with her grueling workout regimen. After being on an island for (mostly) five years, having three jobs is stretching her pretty thin; it's good that she’s used to not getting much sleep at night.

Happily, Thea’s recent ordeal with her friend Roy Harper has put Oliver and Tommy’s relationship on the mend. It seems the Hood’s actions that night in the subway has softened Tommy’s views on vigilantism ever so slightly, and it’s enough for him to bend his opinion on Oliver’s participation in the vigilante’s nighttime excursions. Oliver doesn’t talk about it with Felicity, but she notices a pep in his step that hasn’t been there in weeks.

The three of them are wrapping up business at 3AM on Saturday morning, after another night of wild profits and partying, when Tommy pulls out the lost and found box. “What sort of business has a lost and found that’s just filled with women’s underwear?” Oliver asks, laughing as he holds up a lacy black bra.

“The _best_ kind,” Tommy says appreciatively as Felicity laughs from behind the bar.

“I’m glad you boys are enjoying yourselves,” Felicity teases them, but she actually means it. Tommy, particularly, seems to have come into his own as assistant manager and bartender; he was clearly enjoying himself tonight as he entertained the club patrons.

“Enjoying myself? Having this much fun should be against the law!” he says enthusiastically.

“Oh, if wishing made it so!” Detective Lance comes strolling in through the front door, already scowling at the two men and Felicity. “Am I interrupting anything?”

All of Tommy's good humor evaporates as he moves toward Detective Lance anxiously. “Is Laurel okay?”

Felicity hangs back warily as Oliver comes around the bar; she can see she’s still not Detective Lance’s favorite person.

“She’s fine,” Lance says, a little less haughty than he was when he walked in. “This visit is about something else. A girl just got mowed down a couple blocks from here, by the Starling Bridge. Ring any bells with you?”

“No,” Tommy says immediately, staring down at the picture Lance is showing them on his phone.

“Should she?” Oliver asks.

“She was in your club.”

Tommy stands up straighter. “A lot of people were.”

Oliver’s voice is more conciliatory. “You think someone here killed her?”

“Not some _one_. Some _thing_.” Lance tosses a small plastic bag onto the table and stares hard between the two men. He still hasn’t acknowledged Felicity, co-owner of the club and equally as likely to be party to any illegal activities that might be happening here.

“Vertigo,” Oliver breathes, his hands going to his hair as he takes a step back.

“Yeah.” Lance fixes his beady eyes on Tommy. “Got a problem with that in this club?”

“Not that I’m aware of!” Tommy says sharply, defensively.

Oliver’s shifting his weight, clearly agitated. “We don’t allow drugs in here, Detective,” he says a little faintly.

Lance sneers, then snatches up the small baggie. “Control your clientele,” he snaps at Tommy, then finally, his eyes land on Felicity and his lip curls just a bit more. “Before anyone else runs into traffic.”

As soon as he’s gone, Felicity lets out a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding as Tommy and Oliver turn toward her. “Is there any chance she could’ve scored the drugs in here?” Oliver asks Tommy, barely above a whisper.

“Doubtful, I try not to hire too many drug dealers,” Tommy says, still defensive.

“Get me a list of the employees, I’ll run a cross-reference with any drug arrests,” Felicity says quickly before Oliver can respond.

Tommy gestures between himself and Oliver. “That includes the two of us, you know.”

“Still, I want that list,” she says firmly. She moves down the bar to continue repacking the liquor, but she sees Tommy lean toward Oliver.

“I thought the vigilante finished off the Count,” she hears Tommy say accusingly.

Oliver doesn’t even hesitate. “He did.”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, she breaks into the asylum where the Count is being held. He’s muttering to himself about death and redemption, but he doesn’t seem all that surprised when Felicity grabs him and throws him against the wall.

“A woman died tonight from your poison,” she says menacingly, barely above a growl.

“Lots of women die! Lots of nights! For lots of reasons!” he says unctuously, his eyes wild. His once handsome face is now gaunt, his skin pale, and if he weren’t such a sociopath before she stuck him with his own drugs, Felicity might feel a little remorseful for putting him in this state. As it is, she's not feeling anything besides righteous fury. 

“Someone is selling vertigo again! Where is it coming from?” she snarls, her modified voice now echoing off the empty concrete walls.

The sound seems to transform the Count as he stills under her grip. He's more alert as his wild eyes find hers in the darkness. “I remember you,” he breathes. 

She leans back, surprised by his sudden lucidity, but he leans forward as he holds up a hand-drawn picture.

“You Hood! You Hood!” He stares right into her eyes, even though she's sure he can only see shadow. It unnerves her, his certainty, and she has to forcibly remind herself that he's insane.

“Where is it coming from?” she repeats, shoving him against the wall again, trying to break his concentration. 

“I remember you! You are never far from my thoughts, fair-haired Hood!” 

Her blood runs cold, but before she can question him further, she hears keys in the door to his cell. She shoves him back into the moonlight streaming through the barred window and watches as he spins around triumphantly. “You have failed this city!” the Count screams. “You have failed this city!”

She leaps away, his shouts seeming to follow her all the way back to the foundry. 

 

* * *

 

Only three hours later, the Count escapes from the asylum.

 

* * *

 

“This new version of vertigo… it's more addictive, more unstable… it killed a girl in the club, just like it almost killed Thea.”

It's almost nine o'clock in the morning, and Oliver is debriefing Diggle on the night's events as Felicity stews in the corner. They'd both spent the night in the foundry, but neither of them had slept. 

“Okay, what are you thinking?” Diggle asks Felicity briskly. “I’d say to pay the Count a visit —”

“He was my first visit,” she says tartly. “I thought he was crazy, but it turned out he’s just a really good actor. And since he’s the only one who knew the formula for vertigo, I don’t know where to begin.”

“We start at the bottom?” Oliver offers. “One of us buys drugs, plants a tracker on the dealer, we follow him to see where he goes? You’re always talking about those microscopic trackers —”

“Filament strips,” Felicity snaps; she’ll never be able to forgive his willful forgetfulness of technological terms. “But that’s not a bad idea. I’ll go to —”

“No way, you can't purchase drugs as the Hood guy, and you can’t go as yourself, you scream narc,” Oliver says abrasively. “And I can’t go because I’m Oliver Queen, everyone knows who I am.”

“Clearly the only solution is to send in the black guy,” Diggle says, annoyed. “Thanks, man.”

“We could pay someone else to do it for us,” Oliver suggests.

“No, we are not sending someone innocent in there and risk them being caught,” Felicity says sharply. “It has to be one of us.”

In the end, it’s Diggle, who returns later that afternoon dressed like a rich rapper and tosses the purchased vertigo on the desk. “All right. The person of color has successfully bought drugs.”

“The tracker is already active,” Felicity says, patting Diggle’s arm appreciatively. She’s already dressed in her leather pants and long-sleeved black undershirt as she watches the signal beacons on her computer. “Already getting a strong signal off of it.”

“Drug money is like a pigeon, it always finds its way home,” Diggle says sagely as he strips off his undercover clothes.

“And we’ll trace it all the way back to the Count,” Felicity says, pulling on her jacket and hood. “Keep an eye on the signal.”

He nods curtly, but she notices his edgy glance toward the far computer, the one that is still running facial recognition software for Floyd Lawton. 

She rides around the Glades for an hour before Oliver sends her the coordinates where the money landed. It’s a construction yard where a bunch of homeless men are gathered around a barrel fire. Felicity watches from a nearby rooftop as three luxury vehicles pull up, and the men start clamoring to hand over their money. When she spots a brick of drugs, she sends a well-aimed arrow right for it, and vertigo capsules burst everywhere.

She slides down a concrete chute, still releasing arrows into the crowd, but whoever is in the car manages to get away as she’s forced to roll under one of the trucks to avoid being hit.

When she gets back to the foundry, Oliver is there by himself, still watching the now-useless signal as the police scanner on her right-hand computer issues a call for a gun crime in progress at the aquarium. She leans over Oliver and hacks into the aquarium’s security to get a better look, and she’s surprised to see one of the homeless guys from the construction yard standing beside the tank, waving a gun over a dead security guard.

“Scanner said witnesses saw him pop some green and purple pills,” Oliver says gravely.

“Where is Diggle?”

“He had an errand —”

Felicity hurries over to her trunk and pulls out her herbs, dumping them into a bowl and mixing them with water.

“There’s a guy high on vertigo who is taking hostages, and you’re brewing tea,” Oliver says, coming to stand beside her with his arms crossed.

Right. He hasn’t seen her magical herb remedy at work yet. “They’re medicinal herbs from the island. They counteract the effects of some drugs and poisons. They should counteract the effects of vertigo.”

He looks mollified as he watches her work. “So you’re not gonna off him?” 

“Oliver, first of all, I'm not a mob boss. I don't 'off' people. Secondly, I didn't kill your sister for getting high on this garbage.” she says sharply, and he immediately looks chagrined. “She didn’t deserve an arrow in the heart, and neither does this guy. He didn’t fail the city — the city failed him.” She stares up at him fiercely. “And so did I.”

“That's ridiculous, this isn’t your fault,” Oliver says, frowning. “You didn’t make him take drugs.”

“Yeah, but I also went against my instincts when I didn't kill the Count,” she says tightly. “He's still around, he's still hurting people.”

“You caught him. You locked him up.”

“That girl is dead because I didn't put him in a grave!” she snaps, glaring up at him. “I show mercy to one man, and the city is paying for it! Clearly, it wasn’t the right decision!”

He recoils and presses his lips together as she stands up and grabs her bow. She already regrets her outburst, but she’s not in the mood to coddle a grown man. She turns back to him and says, “Get in touch with Diggle. I’m gonna need a second set of eyes at the aquarium.”

 

* * *

 

She’s too late to save the man at the aquarium.

She herds him away from the innocent people he’s threatening, but he ends up in a vacant tunnel just past a stream of water from a busted pipe. He slips and lands on the ground, gasping for air, and just before Felicity injects him with the healing herbs, he takes his last breath. The vertigo was too much for his body.

“Where _the hell_ were you?” she snaps at Diggle as soon as she gets back to the foundry. Oliver’s not there, and Diggle’s sitting with his netbook propped open like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “There was a hostage situation at the aquarium, Oliver was supposed to get in touch with you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that message until it was over,” Diggle replies coolly.

“Why not?”

“Because I was busy chasing a lead on Lawton.”

Felicity’s lip curls as she turns away and slams her bow onto her trunk.

“Felicity, you didn’t end up needing me.” 

“You couldn’t have known that!”

“So in other words, ‘Find your brother’s killer on your own time,’ right?” Diggle snaps.

“With vertigo flooding back into the streets, maybe now is not the best time to indulge in a personal vendetta!” Felicity yells, some of her temper boiling over.

Diggle’s face screws up with fury. “Are you gonna stand there and tell me that you going after the Count is not personal? Felicity, listen, I cannot read a book to my nephew without knowing that Lawton took his father from him! I can’t move on with my life knowing that he’s still out there!”

At those words, she feels her anger flow away, replaced with regret and more than a little bit of guilt. Sometimes she forgets that she's not the only person on this team who has lost something — who has lost  _everything_. But all of her false apologies stay stuck in her throat as she stares at him wordlessly. She's not sorry for her choices, she's not sorry for prioritizing vertigo over Deadshot, and she won't pretend to care more about Diggle's  _possible_ lead than she does about protecting this city. 

And he reads the truth all over her face. He shakes his head, jaded, and grabs his jacket. “I thought if anybody got that, it’d be you.”

The door slams behind him a few seconds later, and for the first time since he joined the team, Felicity isn't sure if Diggle will walk back through it. 

She kicks at her trunk in frustration, breathing heavily as she strips off her leathers.

“Whoa hey, sorry,” Oliver says, walking in unexpectedly as Felicity stands there in her bra and leather pants.

“Relax, Oliver, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” she says icily, pulling on one of her blouses.

“What’s wrong with Diggle?”

“He’s taking some personal time.”

“But —”

“Drop it, Oliver.”

He hesitates, then turns around so she can change out of her pants. “Okay, but I just had a terrible conversation with Tommy. Lance isn’t relenting on this whole vertigo in the club thing, and now Tommy thinks that I suspect him of allowing dealers in.”

“Do you?” she asks as she pulls on her skirt. “You know him better than anyone.”

“Of course I don’t suspect him,” he says wearily. “But he said that he doesn’t feel like he knows me anymore. He thinks that because I work with the vigilante now, he could be next on our list if he’s suspected of dealing vertigo.”

Felicity is quiet as she zips up her skirt and arranges her blouse neatly. Truthfully, if Tommy _were_ dealing vertigo, he would definitely find himself on the business end of one of Felicity's arrows, but she's inclined to believe he's innocent in all of this. When she’s done getting dressed, she shuts the trunk and walks around to her computer, looking up at Oliver sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Oliver, but Tommy’s the least of our problems right now.”

“The least of _your_ problems.”

“You’re on this team _provisionally_ ,” she says loudly, tired of fighting with the people she trusts. “If you want to leave to preserve your friendship with Tommy, I understand.”

He shakes his head and scowls like that's the most ridiculous thing Felicity has ever said. “That’s not an option either —”

“Then what do you want from me?” she explodes. “I’m trying to stop the spread of vertigo, Digg wants me to catch Lawton, you want me to coddle Tommy, I’m just one person!”

He glares at her in dismay, and that look on his face makes her feel even worse than Diggle's deep disappointment had done only a moment ago. 

Her computer beeps behind her. “Autopsy report on the hostage-taking junkie is in,” she says stiffly, swiveling in her chair to open the document. “And he didn’t die from vertigo.”

Oliver crosses his arms, clearly struggling to put their fight on the backburner and focus on the task at hand. “So another dead end?”

“According to the toxicology report, he died from an allergic reaction to chlorpromazine,” she blinks up at Oliver owlishly, “which is an anti-psychotic.”

“And?”

“And it wasn’t in the original vertigo formula,” she says slowly. “I ran the spectroanalysis myself, there was no chlorpromazine or any anti-psychotics in it when I first captured the Count.”

“So he’s adding it now? Why mess with the original formula?” Oliver wonders.

She smacks her hand on the desk. “Because he has access to it now. He’d need an astronomical amount of any sort of anti-psychotic to be able to put it into circulation, and he was in a mental hospital. Oliver, we’ve been looking at this all wrong! He faked his escape, the same way he faked being insane.”

Oliver stares back at her, aghast. “I guess you’re breaking back into the mental institution.”

 

* * *

 

She breaks into the basement of the mental hospital, assuming the Count would be on the premises but in a more secluded part of the building. She finds a storage space, where broken wheelchairs and old mattresses are stacked haphazardly around the room, and just beyond that, a wall of plastic sheets that have been crudely stapled to the ceiling. She snatches the plastic aside and discovers the hodge-podge drug den, consisting of rusted microscopes, chipped beakers, and several containers of multicolored pills.

From behind another wall of plastic, she hears a familiar voice muttering quiet diatribes. She bursts through the plastic and finds the Count sitting in a chair with his back to her, his head turning from side to side slowly as he continues his rant.

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” she mutters quietly, pressing an arrow to his neck and drawing blood. “Turn around!”

But he doesn’t comply. He doesn’t even answer. She realizes he’s sitting still, something she’s never thought he’d be capable of doing, and that’s when she registers the rhythmic beeping; he’s hooked up to a machine.

She moves around the chair slowly, taking in the unexpected view. The Count, once so loud and jubilant, now sits there like a vegetable, his expression blank, his eyes unfocused, his body relaxed. He’s wearing restraints, and there’s some sort of drug going into his body intravenously. Suddenly, she realizes the Count didn’t escape at all — he was abducted.

And as quickly as she comes to that conclusion, the world goes black.

 

* * *

 

She dreams of the island again. It’s always on the periphery, the rocky shores and the mountainous terrain having left its marks on her body and her psyche, but sometimes, like when she’s deep in the List or focused on a mission, she can go two or three nights without dreaming of the island at all.

But this time, she dreams of Shado.

 

* * *

 

She comes to with a start, her entire body jerking violently as she tries to spring to her feet, but she’s restrained in a chair just like the Count had been. The back of her head is killing her; someone must’ve gotten the drop on her and sent her to the floor. _That’s why you go in with backup._

She sees her quiver on a nearby table as she hears footsteps approaching, and she leans her head back, trying to figure out ways to escape this situation.

“So, the Count didn’t fake losing his mind, did he?” she asks the faceless footsteps as they walk behind her, but she has a hunch on who it is. “It was you the whole time. How’d you get him to give you the formula?”

“I know who you are,” the doctor says mildly. “Felicity Smoak, returned from the dead. All those years on that island… I guess you really did go crazy.”

She rolls her eyes. “The Count doesn’t look too great. I’d say chemistry isn’t his best subject right now.”

“He couldn’t tell me if he wanted to, so I ordered a biopsy on his kidneys. When I got the results, I realized I could reverse-engineer a compound of the drug and produce a synthesized version of the drug myself, using the facilities here.”

“And made some improvements,” she says flatly. She’s working on getting her remote for her exploding arrows free from her wrist band as she talks to the doctor. “Like adding chlorpromazine.”

“So that’s how you found us.” The doctor actually sounds appreciative of her effort. “I wasn’t trying to be a criminal mastermind. I just needed the money.” He glances back at his crony, a burly orderly with an unfriendly face, and says, “Open her mouth.”

She fights hard, harder than she’s ever fought anything, but her restraints are tight and the orderly is strong. She’s powerless to stop it when the doctor pours a green liquid in her open mouth.

The effect is immediate. Her peripheral vision blurs as she starts to lose her faculties, such as speed of time or sense of touch, but she presses down hard on the button in her hand, and her arrow responds with rhythmic beeping that distracts the two men. The orderly steps toward it just before it explodes, sending Felicity toppling to the floor. She’s able to break out of her restraints, but everything is blurry and slow now as she drags herself across the floor. She remembers the arrow in her quiver holding the herb concoction she’d intended to inject into the junkie at the aquarium.

She’s just pulled herself up and seized the arrow in her fist when she hears fighting and scuffling behind her. “Digg!” she calls out, recognizing the grunts, but she collapses to the floor with the arrow in her hand as Diggle continues to fight off the orderly. Bracing herself, she sticks the arrow in her chest and injects the herbs into her bloodstream, turning over to cough out the faux-vertigo she’d managed not to swallow.

Diggle’s still fighting the orderly, so Felicity runs after the doctor, chasing him into the hallway and yelling, “Freeze!” in a strangled cry.

He stops and turns. “You don’t look so good. I doubt you could aim a single arrow,” he jeers.

So Felicity notches three arrows and takes aim. The doctor’s face falls as his step falters, and then Felicity releases the arrows. One of them finds its mark, and the doctor falls over, dead.

She pulls her hood back on and trudges back into the room where the Count is still sitting, bound and muttering. “Looks like I’m the last one standing!” he says brightly, his eyes still unfocused as Felicity stands in front of him. “Sitting. Spinning. Something to do. What was I going to do? Memory not what it once was! Nothing what it once was.”

She’s mechanically notched an arrow and drawn her bow as the Count murmured to himself. Diggle, having defeated the orderly, is standing in the doorway to her left, watching apprehensively as she aims the arrow right between the Count’s eyes.

The Count leans forward, some of his old swagger back as he raises his blank eyes to her shadowed face. “Fair-haired, fair child, golden of the species. Tragic Hood. Not what he once was.”

She lowers her bow as the Count’s eyes dart back and forth between two invisible concepts. She thinks of Oliver, and the way he'd believed she would kill the junkie at the aquarium. She remembers the way he insisted on mercy, that there were ways to seek justice without killing. This isn't the Count's fault, not this time. 

It's Oliver who stays her hand, it's Oliver who spares the Count, it's Oliver who has made her begin to question everything. 

She glances at Diggle, who is still standing in the doorway apprehensively, expecting her to take the kill shot.

“We’re done here.”

 

* * *

 

They meet back at the foundry later, where Felicity smiles at Diggle tentatively. “You had my back.”

“You needed me,” he says simply. “Oliver told me where you were headed.”

“Are you okay?” she asks softly, her mind on the dead orderly. “I’m the killer, remember?”

“I’ve killed before, Felicity,” he says gruffly. “It’s just been a while.”

She nods and starts to rearrange the vials on the ‘science table,’ as Oliver had dubbed it. It’s been in complete disarray during this case, what with reverse-engineering, spectroanalysis, and Felicity’s tea brewing.

“But if you’re the killer, why isn’t the Count down, too? Sure it must’ve been tempting, taking him off the board for good?”

“People change,” she says oppressively.

“People like the Count?”

“I meant me,” she replies, facing him again. “Not so long ago, I would’ve put that guy down for good. But looking at him today, all vacant… there didn’t seem to be a point.”

Diggle gives her a small, knowing smile. He watched her tonight, as she struggled between her instinct and her morals. Even now, she's not sure she made the right choice, but it's the choice she has to live with now.

“Anyway, not everybody deserves mercy,” she continues, handing Diggle her tablet. “For example: Floyd Lawton.”

Diggle glances down at the CIA profile for Deadshot, then frowns at Felicity. “I thought he wasn’t a priority to you.”

“He’s a priority to _you_ ,” she says emphatically. “And you two have unfinished business.”

Diggle nods resolutely. “Where do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 16 will be another flashback chapter, just fair warning!


	16. want to learn how to fight like a woman?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You fought impressively,” Slade said unexpectedly as they trudged through the dark, rainy woods. For a moment, Felicity thought he was talking to her, but when she glanced back, his black eyes were on Shado. “Your father trained you well.”
> 
> “Yeah, well, he wanted a son,” Shado replied tonelessly.

Rescuing Shado had been an accident.

Felicity and Slade had worked out a trade with Fyers, the egotistical mercenary in charge. He was on a mission to blow up a plane, and he was willing to do anything to make it happen. She and Slade had stolen a command board from the computer that controlled the missiles, and they used it as leverage to get Yao Fei out of custody. Slade had detested the plan at first, wondering if Yao Fei even wanted to be rescued, but Felicity had firmly reminded him of Yao Fei’s friendship and partnership before she’d arrived on the island. “You always say you two had planned to escape together. That should still be your plan.”

A couple of months earlier, Slade would’ve ridiculed her for her soft heart; this time, however, he stared at her inscrutably before abruptly relenting.

Once Slade agreed to an objective, his tactical and strategic-minded planning was invaluable. And while stealing the command board had been Felicity’s idea, Slade had the sense to steal a radio in order to make his demands. They met on neutral ground, outnumbered in manpower but in control of the key to the missile launch, which Felicity had hidden in the base of a tree in the woods.

She expected gratitude, relief, happiness, or even astonishment from Yao Fei. When she saw horror and hesitation, she knew something was wrong. That’s when Fyers had his men drag out Shado, who was struggling against her captors futilely. “His daughter,” she heard Slade breathe beside her, and then all hell broke loose. Felicity lost track of Slade in the scuffle, but she saw Shado incapacitate her two captors in quick succession. They managed to fight off Fyers and his men, and the four of them — Slade, Felicity, Yao Fei, and Shado — took off toward the coast, stumbling in the underbrush and darting around trees. They were followed by heavy gunfire, and then Yao Fei went down.

He begged for them to take his daughter and leave him, as he was too injured to run. “I’ll come back for you,” Felicity whispered as Slade hauled a screaming and kicking Shado over his shoulder and kept running. She squeezed Yao Fei’s hand before she followed. It wasn’t the last time she saw him alive, but it was the last time she had hope of saving him.

Unfortunately, one of Fyers’ marauding band of mercenaries had retrieved the command board while they were gone. Slade growled while Shado finally spoke, in English, admonishing them both for their stupidity. They had bartered away their one bargaining chip, and they hadn’t even achieved their objective. There was nothing left but to make the long trek back to the fuselage and come up with a new plan.

“You fought impressively,” Slade said unexpectedly as they trudged through the dark, rainy woods. For a moment, Felicity thought he was talking to her, but when she glanced back, his black eyes were on Shado. “Your father trained you well.”

“Yeah, well, he wanted a son,” Shado replied tonelessly.

She didn’t speak again, even after they got back to the fuselage. She took the blanket Felicity offered her and made a bed for herself on the floor, curling up like a cat. Felicity had the impression that Shado had her eyes open the whole time she lay there, even as Slade built a fire and Felicity messed with the radio.

The next day, Slade asked Shado if she wanted to spar. She’d stared up at him haughtily, then rolled her eyes and followed him to the center of the fuselage, where she promptly took him to the ground. He sprang back to his feet, his eyes alight with excitement and challenge, and they proceeded to battle it out for half an hour. Sometimes Slade would win, sometimes Shado; it was a pretty even fight. Felicity was impressed with the young woman’s skill, as she made Slade look like a real opponent and not an unmovable mass of muscles.

“Can she fight?” Shado asked as she sipped some water after their last round.

“I’m sitting right here.”

“I’ve tried. Limited success,” Slade said, hopping up and down as if was ready for another round.

“Hey, I’m _sitting right here_ ,” Felicity snapped.

“Well I haven’t tried yet,” Shado said, offering Felicity her hand. “What do you say? Want to learn how to fight like a woman?”

Felicity had been prepared for bruises and scratches from sparring. Instead, Shado had sat her in front of a bowl of water and instructed her to hold out her hand. “Hit the water.”

Felicity had obliged, bemused. “Again,” Shado said. Felicity hit the water again, palm side down, sending sprinkles everywhere. “Again, harder,” Shado said.

“If the point of this is to make me feel like an idiot, it’s working.”

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” Shado had said loftily, sitting cross-legged in front of her.

“Lao-Tzu, great, I see the family resemblance,” Felicity muttered, remembering how often Yao Fei would quote ancient warriors and philosophers as she continues to smack the water. The bowl empties quickly and then she glances up at Shado. “Now what?”

“Fill the bowl. Start again.”

She did it because there was nothing else to do. They didn’t have a plan for rescuing Yao Fei, Slade was out hunting, and Shado was a very gifted fighter, so Felicity humored her, sitting there slapping a bowl of water for hours. Shado spent the time doing yoga, telling Felicity about her father, and explaining how she’d been abducted and brought to the island as leverage against him.

“I’m worried,” Shado said softly during a rare pause in water-slapping. “This island. I’m wondering what he’s had to do to survive it.”

“He saved my life,” Felicity answers her consolingly. “He’s still a good man, Shado.”

The water slapping continued until well past dark, when Slade returned with three birds strung up for roasting. “You’re still doing that,” he remarked when Felicity sent a wave of water over his shoes. “A man’s gotta be careful around these bowls of water.”

She wasn’t used to his teasing. “When are we gonna do actual training?” she asked Shado irritably.

“There once was a young boy whose father dropped him off at a Shaolin monastery to learn kung fu.”

Felicity sighed as Slade rolled his eyes. “Oh good. Story time.”

Shado drew herself up and continued as if she hadn't been interrupted. “After a year, the boy came to visit his family. When asked what he’d learned, the boy hung his head in shame. All the monks had him do was slap water in a barrel for a year.”

“Well we don’t have a year, so I hope your training regimen’s a bit faster,” Slade cut in.

Undeterred, Shado said, “The family didn’t believe him, so he showed them. He raised his hand and hit the table they were eating on. It broke in half.”

“Well,” Felicity said dryly. “That’ll be a fun party trick.”

“No, better,” Shado said, standing up to grab her father’s bow from the corner. “This bow has a 150-pound draw.” She placed it in Felicity’s hands, then positioned her arms so that she was holding it correctly in front of her. “Draw the bow.”

And Felicity did. It required almost no effort, even though her arm was sore and she was tired. She drew it all the way back, and Slade grinned at her from across the fire. “Well I’ll be damned.”

Shado beamed at Slade, then turned to Felicity. “Tomorrow, we teach you how to shoot.”

Shado was no slouch at archery, and she trained Felicity in a matter of days. After that, they moved to fighting techniques. Fighting like a woman — fighting like Shado — was different from fighting like a man. Slade’s technique was brute force, strength, and rigid discipline, but Shado fought with finesse, strategy, and flexibility.

She also taught Felicity how to move soundlessly in the woods, how to hunt, and how to do yoga and meditation. Shado’s tactics were foreign to Slade, who ridiculed her at every turn, but Shado would simply turn her chin up and continue with her lessons. Eventually, even Slade couldn’t ignore the vast improvement in Felicity’s archery and fighting technique, and his ridicule turned into grudging respect.

Then one morning, Yao Fei walked into the fuselage.

“Father!” Shado yelled, throwing herself into her father’s arms, but his hug was perfunctory as Felicity rushed forward with a smile. Only Slade hung back warily, his eyes squinted as the two women cried with joy.

“How did you escape?” Slade breathed, and Yao Fei didn’t answer. Instead, they were swarmed by Fyers’ men and marched back to his camp as his prisoners.

Things went horribly after that. A lot of Felicity’s nightmares spring from that day, as she watched Yao Fei get shot in the head just after he made a ransom video for Fyers. Minutes before, he had slipped a blade into Felicity’s hand in order to free herself, and in that moment, deep down, she’d realized that his fate was sealed. He had accepted his inevitable death, and she should have, too.

But she sat there numbly for a moment, her horrified eyes on Yao Fei’s slumped body as Fyers went about his business of launching missiles at a commercial airplane. She’d turned to find a stunned and tear-streaked Slade staring back at her, and the sight of him at a loss had been enough to snap her out of her stupor. She sawed her bindings free, then slipped the blade to Shado as she sprang from the ground and ran, screaming, at Fyers.

Night fell, and so did Fyers’ camp. Eventually, the battered and grieving trio found themselves surrounded by burning wreckage and dead mercenaries, but Felicity and Slade were facing Fyers, who had captured Shado and was holding a gun to her head in a quiet taunt.

“Let her go,” Felicity said sternly, raising her bow, but Fyers had laughed at her nerve as Slade, overcome with injuries, collapsed beside her with a grunt. Shado had stared hard at Felicity, unafraid, as she gave an almost imperceptible nod as if to say, _You can do this._

So Felicity drew in a deep breath, and on the exhale, she released the arrow, sending it right through Fyers’ throat.

It was the first kill she ever made with her weapon of choice, and it felt as natural as breathing.

“I should’ve figured you couldn’t save the day without making a mess!” Slade had guffawed, dragging his broken leg behind him as he struggled to stand up, but he’d looked at Felicity with glowing pride as Shado hurried across the smoldering wreckage and hugged them both.

In the months that followed, the three of them reached a sort of working harmony. Felicity grew to genuinely love Shado like a sister, which was great, because Felicity had always wanted a sister. Her skills and strength grew as time passed, and eventually, she was able to hold her own against Shado in sparring and took her turn hunting on alternating nights.

Summer was quite enjoyable on an otherwise inhospitable island. The cold never really went away, but it became bearable during the day, and there was even patches of greenery in places. They traveled together, exploring the island for any hidden bunkers leftover from World War II or for anything to help them radio for a way home.

Slade had all but abandoned his primitive attempts to train Felicity, recognizing that she was growing and learning from Shado’s much more effective techniques. Sometimes, Felicity missed the companionship; other times, she was glad that their arrangement had been unspoken and casual, as it kept things uncomplicated in their little group dynamic.

Shado often took up for Felicity when Slade would tease her for being soft or untrained. She carefully taught Felicity how to fish in the ocean, how to build a secure tree stand, and how to field dress game. In another life, they might have discussed their favorite movies or wines, or gossiped about the newest celebrity hottie. (Sometimes she wondered how those _Harry Potter_ kids were faring, and had even voiced the question to Shado once; Shado had given her a bemused smile and asked why she was thinking of such things when she was supposed to be plucking feathers.)

Theirs was a friendship marked in close companionship and loyalty. Shado was very much like her father, full of wisdom and patience but with a low tolerance for nonsense, yet she tended to smile more as she spent more time with Felicity. Felicity counted that as a victory.

Shado also liked to challenge Slade on days when he was in his dark moods, or when he was overly annoyed by Felicity’s optimism. Often they ended up sparring, pinning each other on the mat and laughing in each other’s faces as the victor alternated. Slade would push her off easily when he lost and immediately challenge her to a rematch, and she’d leave him with the agony of having lost for an entire day, just to torture him.

He began to speak softer, smile more, and listen closer. He found beautiful places on the island and would insist they come and look, and he’d beam proudly as they rhapsodized about gorgeous tidepools or waterfalls. He told more stories of his life before the island, of his son Joey, of how he came to be an ASIS agent. Mostly, he became softer around the edges, like the island had hardened him and he was finally becoming human again.

Felicity wasn’t blind. She could see that Slade was falling in love with Shado.

And not, like, vacation love. Not the sort of love that would die as soon as they left the island and got back to their real lives. He was falling in _real_ love with Shado, or as real as love can be when you're stranded on an island.

Felicity could tell by the way he began to orient himself around her, the way he listened when she spoke, the way he looked at her almost wistfully when she wasn’t paying attention. They had both taught Felicity to value observation above all things — know your surroundings as you know yourself, comb every inch of unknown terrain, and be ever watchful — but Felicity had always liked watching _people_ , so naturally, they were her subjects. She could see Slade was becoming a different person (or perhaps turning into his former self) just as she could also tell that Shado had no inkling of Slade’s true feelings.

They counted out the calendar days on a wall of the fuselage, to the best of their knowledge, so it was at the end of September that Professor Ivo and his men arrived.

They captured Shado within a day of arriving onshore; Felicity and Slade heard gunshots in the distance and Slade’s face transformed as they went running after her. They found her nearly a mile away from the fuselage, tied up in a clearing and surrounded by four men who were taunting and grabbing at her as she sat there stoically.

It sent Felicity into a rage. She tore into a clearing and tackled one of the men as Slade ran in after her, taking out two others. Shado knocked out one more, but Felicity was still fighting, punching, kicking, and finally, she seized a rock and started beating the man to a bloody pulp.

The world went dark and blurry as she stared down at her bloody hands, and then Shado was murmuring to her. “Come on. Let’s get away from this place.”

She led Felicity to a cove, where she helped her wipe the blood from her hands and face. She was numb the entire time, except for feeling that something wanted to crawl out of her stomach and consume her. Was she a monster? Was she a hero? Was she even human anymore?

“You saved my life,” Shado said softly. “Felicity. You saved my life.”

Felicity blinked and turned away, plunging her hands in the water once more. “That’s what I keep telling myself. I killed that guy because he was going to kill you. But what if that’s not the reason?”

Shado’s voice was calm, too calm, as she asked, “What do you mean?”

“This island,” Felicity said, anguished, as she turned to face Shado. “It’s… it’s turning me into something terrible.”

Shado looked down thoughtfully, cupping water in her hands and splashing it at Felicity’s blood-soaked hair. “No island can make you something you’re not,” she said finally, squeezing out the blonde tresses.

“Great. So I’ve always been a killer.”

“Everyone has a demon inside of them," Shado said softly. "The _dao de jing_ recognizes the yin and the yang, opposing forces inside all of us. The darkness and the light. The killer and the hero.”

The words had brought an odd, chilling comfort to Felicity’s tormented heart. She was a killer now, she knew from the blood still streaming from her body, but she’d done what was necessary; she did what she had to do to keep Shado here speaking words of comfort as they cleaned blood from their hands in the ocean.

It was a matter of living with her choices, and in that case, there was no choice to make.

But Ivo’s men had the last laugh. They bombed the fuselage two days later, sending the trio scattering. Slade had caught a faceful of flaming tar as a nearby explosion knocked Felicity unconscious. The last thing she saw was Slade screaming, his face and hands on fire, as she wondered whether Shado had made it to safety.

She woke up hours later on Professor Ivo's ship, the _Amazo_. She turned her head and her eyes landed on a pair of unfamiliar combat boots as someone walked into the room and stopped right in front of her.

“Hello, Felicity.”

Sara Lance was staring down at her, and she was very much _not_ dead.


	17. everybody else be damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She knows she made the right choice, but she hasn’t felt this lonely since the island.

Deadshot returns to Starling City a week after Felicity’s second round with the Count.

She knows because she hacked into the ARGUS servers and has been tracking their progress on capturing Lawton. Diggle’s ARGUS connection, an agent named Lyla Michaels, has set a trap in Starling in the hopes of capturing Lawton, which Felicity reports on a rainy Saturday morning as Diggle spars with Oliver behind her.

“I think this technically makes me a cyberterrorist. I’m gonna have a heck of a time escaping from Guantanamo,” she says quickly, tapping away at her keyboard as Diggle and Oliver approach her desk.

“I don’t think they take blondes there,” Oliver quips unexpectedly.

“When are they scheduled to meet?” Diggle interrupts, leaning down to examine the one blurry photo she has of Lawton.

“Not sure. Maybe you should talk to Agent Michaels and see if you can get more information.”

Diggle grunts and grabs his duffel bag. “Not sure how far I’ll get, but it’s worth a shot,” he says as he heads toward the door.

“And I dye it, by the way,” Felicity mutters to Oliver, who grins and pretends to check her roots.

“I have to leave, too. I’m having lunch with Laurel today.”

“Is… that a good idea?” Felicity asks delicately as the door shuts behind Diggle in the distance. “With you and Tommy still on the outs?”

“Laurel and I have been friends for years,” Oliver says mildly. “We can have lunch.”

“Oliver…”

“Relax, Felicity. It’s just lunch. It’s not a big deal.” He shakes his head indulgently, like she’s his overbearing mother, and it irritates her enough to drop the subject. Let him tangle his own interpersonal webs, what does she care?

Well, she cares _a little bit_ when Oliver returns from his lunch in a towering temper.

“Tommy quit. He’s gone to work for his father,” he says angrily. “Left me the books and even a list of top candidates for the assistant manager position. Laurel told me.”

“I’m sorry —” she starts.

“No, you know what? This isn’t your fault. This is all Tommy.” She blinks in surprise and sits back in her chair as she watches Oliver pace in front of her. She’d been sure he was about to yell at her for the impossible position she’s put him in. “If he can’t see the good we are doing in this city by now, if he wants to freeze me out and act like the last five years, like the last _twenty-seven years_ haven’t happened, then fine!”

He stalks off to the sparring dummy and picks up two sticks, and he proceeds to work off his anger through very noisy sparring means.

Felicity feels unexpectedly uplifted by his anger and contempt. It wasn’t so long ago that he was condemning her for being a cold-blooded murderer, and now he’s taking up for her against his best friend. She tells herself not to read too much into it, but she can’t stop herself from smiling every once in a while as Oliver continues to work out behind her.

Diggle returns from his meeting with Lyla a few minutes later, and his mood is even blacker than Oliver’s. Felicity watches him with trepidation as he slams his duffel bag on the table of arrows. “How did it go?”

“Terribly. Lyla found out just why I want Deadshot to be caught, and she’s not happy with me for concealing that information,” Diggle grumbles. “In return, she gave me nothing.”

“Well, good thing I’ve been hard at work while you’ve been gone,” Felicity says brightly, gesturing for him to join her at the computer. “I managed to find Lyla’s mission profile on the trap they’ve set for Deadshot!”

Oliver stops sparring as Diggle’s face transforms from anger to determination. “Tell me.”

“He’s set to meet his new employer and get his assignment the night after tomorrow, at 8PM. His new employer, of course, will be an ARGUS agent.”

“Then Lyla swoops in and arrests him,” Diggle reads over her shoulder, his voice dropping at the end of the sentence.

Felicity looks at Diggle steadily. “Do you want Lawton arrested?”

His expression is grave as his eyes meet hers. “No.”

“Then in two nights, we cross Floyd Lawton’s name off of your list,” she says firmly.

 

* * *

The three of them are gathered at the computer the next day when the news breaks about the murder of Eric and Nancy Moore during the night. The reporter mentions that they were survived by their seven-year-old son, Taylor, and Oliver claps a hand over his mouth. “I know them!”

“What?”

“I met them yesterday at CNRI. Laurel was representing them,” Oliver breathes, and Felicity immediately pulls up the previous news reports on the Moores. They had been about to enter trial against a man named Edward Rasmus, a financier whose name is also on the List.

“I’ll get into his personal and corporate accounts, see if anything links him to the killer,” Felicity says, but after nearly an hour of tense silence, she concludes that Rasmus is too sharp to have linked himself to the murders. Instead, she sets up a remote-access trojan to scour the internet for Rasmus’ name, in the hopes that she’ll catch him doing something illegal.

In the meantime, she hoods up and heads to Laurel’s.

“Shouldn’t we be strategizing for tomorrow night?” Diggle asks sharply, stopping Felicity before she gets to the door.

“You can handle it,” she says simply. “Fill me in when I get back.”

She’s worried that Laurel is Rasmus’ next target; she doesn’t expect Laurel, accompanied by Tommy, to be babysitting the seven-year-old who had survived the attack.

So at that point, an attack by a well-dressed man with a gun was an inevitability.

She sends the assassin running, but not before he’s done considerable damage to Laurel’s apartment. When Tommy, who had been hiding with the child, sits up and spots the vigilante, his eyes narrow as he gives Felicity a grudging nod of gratitude.

 

* * *

 

“Thank God you were there,” Oliver says, intensely relieved, after Felicity relays the night’s events to him hours later. “They all could’ve been killed.”

“I’m not sure Tommy entirely agrees with you,” Felicity mutters, brushing past Oliver to check the computer for any updates. “Where’s Diggle?”

“Babysitting his nephew, Carly had a date tonight,” Oliver replies. “He told you that earlier, weren’t you listening?”

“Yeah, of course, I just forgot,” Felicity says distractedly. “Did he come up with a plan for the Lawton trap tomorrow?”

“Yeah, it’s on your thumbdrive. He was very specific about where you should perch — used a lot of military jargon. Might want to spend some time really studying it,” Oliver says emphatically.

She rolls her eyes as she removes her leather jacket and lays it across the trunk. “Something you want to say to me?”

He feigns innocence. “No. Just… you seem distracted.”

“I just saved two of your best friends’ lives,” she says slowly. “Doesn’t that earn me at least five minutes of goodwill before you give me the third degree?”

“Catching Lawton is very important to Diggle —” Oliver starts diplomatically.

“You don’t have to tell me that!” Felicity snaps, rounding on him. “Of all people, I know how important this is to Diggle!”

“Then start acting like it!” Oliver snaps, his eyes flashing as he leans toward her.

She actively resists the pull this time, because it’s there, it’s strong, in the moment of hesitation after his remonstration. They linger too long, they look too closely, and they both turn away too hastily, angry at themselves and each other as they take off in different directions.

 

* * *

 

Laurel ends up bringing the child to the Queen mansion at Tommy’s suggestion. It makes sense, in hindsight; the Queen grounds and house are armed with a security system, they’ve had four bodyguards on staff since Walter’s disappearance, and Tommy knows that Oliver has some sort of connection to the vigilante. It’s not a bad plan, and it means Felicity and her arrows are only a phone call away if need be.

She’s a little surprised when Oliver arrives at the foundry an hour before the Lawton trap is set. “What are you doing here?”

“They don’t need me there, it was just awkward and strained,” Oliver says shortly, leaning against the arrow table. “Thought I might be more useful here.”

“Yeah, well, I was just about to hood up and head out —”

Her far left computer beeps; her trojan has detected some activity from Edward Rasmus. She slides over and says, “Rasmus has just booked a flight to Shanghai in an hour. He’s running.”

“That’s a good thing,” Oliver says immediately. “He won’t be coming after Laurel and Taylor anymore.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” she mutters darkly.

“Well you can’t do both, it’s either Rasmus or Lawton, and I think you know which one —”

She pulls on her leather jacket and grabs her bow, but Oliver grabs her wrist. She resists the urge to send him toppling to the ground just for touching her, choosing instead to look up at him reproachfully as he holds fast.

“We have to help Laurel —”

“Why?” Oliver asks incredulously. “What is it about Laurel that makes you keep dropping everything and running to her —?”

“She’s under my protection,” Felicity says sharply.

“So am I, and I didn’t see you coming to my house when I was attacked, or springing me from jail when I was accused of being you,” he says heatedly. “There’s some other reason you’re so gung-ho on protecting Laurel, even if it’s to the detriment of Diggle and his own vendetta!”

“Stop, Oliver,” she says warningly.

“If it’s something about Sara —”

“STOP!”

Her voice rings out through the whole basement, putting Oliver on his heels as his eyes widen in surprise. Felicity takes a deep breath, then fixes him with an icy glare. “I’m going after Rasmus. I should be done in time to get to the Lawton location and execute Diggle’s plan. If you have a problem with that,” she jabs her finger, “There’s the door.”

She leaves him standing mute and angry, but he can’t possibly know how difficult this decision is for her.

 

* * *

 

She fails.

Well, she succeeds in catching Rasmus before he even gets to the airport, and she hands him over to the proper authorities after threatening to kill him if he doesn’t call off the hit on Laurel and her young charge.

But she fails to get to the meet in time. Her heart is heavy as she descends the metal stairs at the foundry to find a battered and bloody Diggle sitting hunched at the medical table, surrounded by bloody gauze as he holds another wad of it to an open wound on his temple.

“What happened?” she asks softly, ignoring Oliver’s critical expression over Diggle’s shoulder as he leans against the desk with his arms crossed.

“You didn’t show. Things didn’t go well.”

His flat tone sends a chill through her, and she feels compelled to explain: “Rasmus was skipping town, and I had to re-prioritize.”

“Thanks to your new priorities, four agents are dead, Felicity,” Diggle says in the same tone, and Felicity reels from the information. “You could’ve stopped this guy, ended this once and for all.”

She swallows, hard, and tries not to sound even the least bit accusatory as she asks, “Lawton got away?”

Diggle inhales sharply, then glares up at Felicity with pure hatred. Rising to his feet, he’s finally found his emotions as he bites out, “You seriously think a man who goes by the name ‘Deadshot’ was gonna go down without a fight? I needed you there, Felicity!”

“Taylor Moore was relying on me, Digg,” she says just as fiercely.

He shakes his head incredulously. “This was never about that kid! He’s safe at Oliver’s house under armed security! This is about Laurel.”

“Diggle — I made a choice —” she starts repressively, but he cuts her off.

“I know. And you chose Laurel. Just like last time. Just like every time.” His expression is etched with loathing as he towers over Felicity. “Everybody else be damned.”

He pushes past her with one last scathing look, then he’s gone, and Felicity’s facing a very grave and reproachful Oliver. “Do you have something to say, Oliver?” she asks harshly, her unshed tears undercutting her tone.

“No,” he says curtly, grabbing his coat and following Diggle.

She knows she made the right choice, but she hasn’t felt this lonely since the island.

 

* * *

 

She’s still at the foundry hours later when Oliver calls her in a panic.

“He’s here, the assassin Rasmus hired to kill the Moores is here!” he whispers anxiously, apparently hiding from the man as he speaks. “Get here now!”

“Oliver, listen to me carefully,” she says, grabbing her bow and running for her motorcycle. “Go to the opposite part of the house from where Laurel and the kid are sleeping. Make a bunch of noise, break some things, then use the evasion tactics I taught you —”

“You mean the half-hour of evasion tactics training you gave me four days ago?” he whispers harshly. “Yeah I’ll get right on that.”

“I’m getting there as fast as I can, but you have to buy me some time, Oliver!” she snaps. “Where will you be?”

“East wing, second floor, at the back of the house,” he says curtly, then disconnects with her. She wishes he had a bluetooth right now; she doesn’t like the idea of him doing this on his own.

She’s never been to the Queen mansion until now, it’s always been too heavily guarded for her to try to infiltrate, and after Oliver joined the team, it was pointless to even try. He’d helped her draw up a 3D schematic of the floorplan, though, in case something like this ever happened. She also has similar plans saved for Diggle’s apartment, his sister-in-law’s apartment, Laurel’s apartment, and her own loft.

Thank goodness for pre-planning.

Four of Diggle’s hand-picked bodyguards are dead in the grounds, shot in the heart or the head. Two more are in the entryway when Felicity enters through the open door. The power is out, and everything is quiet. Too quiet. She sneaks upstairs and heads into the east wing, and just as she’s made the top step, she hears a crash and then the unmistakable sound of two silenced gunshots.

Her heart in her throat, she moves toward the sound, and she’s shocked when two men burst through one of the wooden doors and tumble into the hallway, locked in a fight. She hangs back and realizes one of them is Oliver… and he’s actually holding his own. He lands two punches and an uppercut, which has the assassin reeling, then a roundhouse kick sends him tumbling down the stairs.

That’s when Oliver spots Felicity and lets out a breath of relief. His lip is bloody, but otherwise he seems unharmed.

“Go protect them,” Felicity says through the voice modifier, then she leaps down the stairs after the assassin.

Oliver was good, but Felicity is better. The assassin, already stumbling and out of breath, curls his lip at her before she picks up where Oliver left off. She’s able to put him at arrow point after only a minute, and when he lunges for a fire poker, she kills him with one shot to the heart.

 

* * *

“Lance said that you must be my guardian angel,” Oliver tells her the next afternoon as they sit facing each other in her office at Queen Consolidated. “That you have an uncanny way of turning up when I need you most.”

She smiles ruefully. “He didn’t think it had something to do with Laurel?”

“I think he knows it has something to do with Laurel,” Oliver says seriously. He leans back in the chair and rests his hands on his stomach, scrutinizing her. “Whatever you’re not telling me about Laurel… whatever you’re not telling me about Sara… you know you can trust me, right?”

She knows she can trust him, but it’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of protecting his feelings, and Laurel’s feelings, and even Detective Lance’s feelings. It doesn’t do any of them any good to know the truth; it’ll just cause them unnecessary pain.

“I know,” she says steadily to Oliver. “But there’s nothing to tell.”

He doesn’t believe her, and she felt the lie as she told it. Still, he drops the subject.

 

* * *

Diggle is waiting for her when she gets to the foundry that evening. He’s sitting in the dark with his back to her, lit only by the glow of the computers, which are still running traces on Floyd Lawton.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” she says as she approaches, and he flinches a little bit at the sound of her voice as she adds, “I wanna get back on the same page.”

“Felicity, we aren’t even in the same book anymore,” Diggle says darkly, not turning to face her.

“I just… did what I thought I had to,” she says haltingly, unnerved by his tone. She’s never heard him so disappointed and… broken.

“Just like I’m doing what I have to.” He takes a deep breath, then stands up. “We’re done.”

Her heart drops as Diggle brushes past her. “Don’t do this,” she whispers.

“The only thing you have to stop me from walking out that door is an arrow,” he says with finality. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret. Whatever that’s worth.”

She doesn’t cry after he leaves. How can she? He’s the one who quit.

 

* * *

She acquires a laptop from Howard Backman, accountant to the most elite Starling City criminals, the next night. Oliver’s at the foundry when she gets back, and he’s clearly trying to play nice now that’s it’s just the two of them on the team.

“Fancy,” he says appreciatively, his eyes on the laptop as she walks in. “Who did you steal that from?”

“Howard Backman.”

“The accountant?” His brow furrows. “Shouldn’t you turn that over to the IRS?”

“I will just as soon as I return all of his money to their rightful owners,” she says, booting up the laptop. “Which… will take a few days, because all of his accounts are protected with an asymmetric encryption algorithm.”

“Great. You’re always at your most bearable when you have intense computer hacking to do,” Oliver says dryly. She rolls her eyes as she starts to work, but he taps her on the shoulder and turns her chair gently with his elbow, forcing her to face him.

“At the risk of getting an arrow to the eye —” he starts, and she scoffs, “— I was wondering when you were planning to go make nice with Diggle.”

“Oliver, it was his choice. He made the decision to leave. I did everything I could to stop him.”

“Except… apologize?” he suggests softly. “You promised you’d help him track down his brother’s killer, and then you —”

“Made a choice I can live with,” she says sharply. “If he can’t deal with that, then I don’t need him.”

“Felicity —”

“Don’t you have a club to run?” She says it in her loud voice, the one that warns him he’s on dangerous grounds, and he gets the message loud and clear.

“Yeah. Fine. Let me know if you find anything,” he says crossly as he walks away.

 

* * *

 

She finds something three hours later, and she rushes upstairs to get Oliver just as the club is starting to wind down for the night.

“You got in?” he asks in a low voice as he follows her down the metal stairs.

“Better,” she says, brandishing a piece of paper. “I put together a list of all of the deposits Backman made last year, look at the biggest one he made.”

His eyes scan down the list and land on, “Two million dollars on Decem… December 12th…” he says slowly. “That’s —”

“The day Walter disappeared,” she supplies quickly. “What if one of Backman’s clients was paid two million to kidnap Walter?”

“Then we find out which client it was and use them to find Walter!” he says excitedly.

“Okay, I’ll back-trace the account and follow the money. Hopefully it’ll lead us to whoever kidnapped Walter,” she says, sitting in front of her computer again. He watches silently as she moves through a series of security firewalls, password cracks, and decryptions, until finally, “Got it. Ugh, it’s Dominic Alonzo.”

“Who?”

“He runs the biggest underground casino in the city when he’s not busy kidnapping,” she replies quickly, moving to her other computer. “He has his own private army and we need to access his computer, preferably from the inside without setting off any alarms.”

“Sounds like we need all the help we can get,” Oliver says brightly. “Maybe Diggle —?”

“That’s enough,” she says flatly. “We can do this on our own.”

“All right. Well I guess someone’s going gambling.”

“I can’t go in there, we’ll have to figure out another way,” she says frustratedly.

“Yeah that’s fascinating, but I wasn’t talking about you,” Oliver says lightly.

“What? No, absolutely not, you’re not going in there,” she objects, standing up angrily to face him.

“Hello? I’m Oliver Queen, I can do whatever I want. I used to gamble all the time, and I’m really good at poker!”

“This isn’t Vegas, Oliver, this is an underground casino. I’m not letting you walk in there —”

He rolls his eyes. “Letting me? Felicity, I only joined this team to help find Walter. Now we have our first real lead!” He stares at her with pure determination, standing a little too close to her as usual. “I'm doing this. You can't stop me.”

She glances down at Walter’s profile on her computer, then looks back at Oliver stonily. “All right. But we do this my way. Agreed?”

He nods resolutely. She hopes she’s not leading him to certain death.

 

* * *

They wait until Monday night. They still haven’t hired a new assistant manager since Tommy left, and they don’t want to risk both of their absences being noted on a busy night, so they wait until Verdant is closed to make their move on the casino.

“You know the plan?” Felicity asks quietly as she walks down a darkened alley beside Oliver. He’s dressed up in a suit and is equipped with an undetectable earpiece, while she’s dressed down in pants and a coat, her leathers safely tucked into the rucksack over her shoulder.

“Get caught counting cards so I can get a friendly warning from Alonzo and plant your chip hacker thing on his computer,” he recites woodenly. He’s a bundle of nerves, his brow furrowed as he steps heavily beside her. “This is all assuming I can actually fake counting cards the way you taught me.”

“Hey,” she says gently, stopping and pulling him around by his elbow to face her. “You don’t have to do this, Oliver.”

His expression clears, and for a moment, he looks just like he did that night so many months ago in Big Belly Burger, when he handed her a copy of the List. “Yes, I do,” he says resolutely.

“If anything happens, I’m right outside,” she says bracingly. “Just keep in contact.”

“Okay,” he puffs out, glancing at the ground before hardening his will and turning away from her. She watches him round the corner, worried beyond belief, but also impressed with his courage. Six months ago, she never would’ve suspected this sort of thing from Oliver Queen.

She perches on a darkened fire escape across from the casino and watches the guards through the binoculars. After a few moments, she murmurs, “Oliver, the password is ‘snapdragon.’”

It gets him into the club, and then Felicity’s left listening to the bluetooth as she waits for his signal. “What do you see?” she asks after a moment.

“Six armed guards, two pit bosses, and a floor manager,” he says promptly, and she feels a swell of pride at his improved observational skills.

“Stay focused, okay?” she says as she starts changing into her leathers, just in case. “I’ll be with you the entire time.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

After that, she is forced to endure 20 minutes of listening to the Oliver Queen show. It’s been a while since she’s seen him in his element — charming crowds, schmoozing, and acting like a general showoff — but he’s brought out all the guns as he joins a poker table and proceeds to publicly and loudly win four hands.

“Come with me, sir,” a deep voice says suddenly, and Felicity perks up.

“Is something wrong?” Oliver asks easily; she can tell he’s still grinning and holding a captive audience.

“Get. Up.” The voice isn’t amused at all, and Oliver mutters, “Well since you asked so nicely…”

The noise of the casino fades away and then Oliver says, “Oh look, the bathroom! It's conveniently located next to the manager's office!"

She cringes as she listens. “Subtle.”

“Mr. Alonzo,” the voice says, and then a door closes.

“Please sit down,” says another man, who she assumes is Dominic Alonzo. “What’s your name?”

She hears Oliver’s hesitation in his soft intake of breath — this man doesn’t recognize him. “Tommy,” he says after a beat.

“Tommy, do you know where the term ‘eighty-six’ comes from?” Alonzo asks conversationally.

“Yes, actually. It comes from Prohibition.”

“Now it means to ban someone who is cheating,” Alonzo says, clearly annoyed at this inconvenience. “You’re eighty-sixed. Leave your chips and go.”

“I understand. Thank you,” Oliver says, which is a signal to Felicity that he’s planted the chip. He’s in the home stretch.

“Oh Tommy, one more thing,” Alonzo says. “You see, the thing about card counters is that sometimes they work with a partner.”

Then the bluetooth goes dead. Felicity springs into action, leaping down from the fire escape and running right at the two bouncers stationed at the entrance. One of them gets two shots off, and she knocks him out cold. She grabs the other one by the neck and sends him backwards through the doors, and he lands sprawled on his back just inside the casino.

People run in all directions, screaming, as the armed guards start firing. She puts arrows in three of them, two of them are killed by crossfire, and one tries to incapacitate her with a stick, which she just rips from his hands before stabbing him with an arrow.

She follows Oliver’s very clear directions to the manager’s office and kicks the door open, bow drawn, to find Alonzo holding Oliver as a human shield in front of him. She releases her arrow into the dart board behind him, and he sneers.

“I heard you never miss.”

“I don’t,” she says, and then the arrow detonates behind him. Oliver ducks away and scrambles around the desk to the other side of the office as Felicity charges forward and grabs Alonzo. Shoving him against the back wall, she snarls, “Where is Walter Steele?”

“What? What are you talking about?” Alonzo asks fearfully.

She slams him into the wall once more, and he groans as she yells, “Six months ago! You had him kidnapped!”

“It — was just a job,” Alonzo says, out of breath. “I was just given a name, I didn’t ask any questions!”

She puts her hand around his neck and starts to squeeze. “Last chance,” she whispers dangerously. “Where is he?”

“In the ground,” Alonzo chokes.

“You’re lying!” she snarls.

“I’m not. I delivered him, and they killed him,” Alonzo says with alarming certainty. “I heard the gunshot. He’s dead.”

Her whole body is numb even as adrenaline pumps through her veins. She reels from the news, horrified, and she hears an unmistakable sniff from Oliver behind her as she stands there. The noise is enough to break the numbness; she hates that he’s in pain, and she hates that Alonzo was party to it, so she punches him hard and knocks him out.

She squeezes her eyes shut as Alonzo’s body slumps to the ground. Slowly, she removes her hood and turns to Oliver, whose eyes are brimming with tears as he watches her helplessly from across the room.

“What am I going to tell my family?” he asks her softly.

 

* * *

 

She sits in the darkened foundry for hours, leaned up against one of the columns, still wearing her full gear with her bow laying beside her.

She’s known all along that Walter is probably dead, but part of her wanted to believe he was still alive somewhere, in the hopes that there is still good in the world. But Walter was snatched away from his family and from her; she’ll never see him again.

She allows herself to mourn him, even if part of her grief has to do with her recent fallout with Diggle. If anything, her tears serve to remind herself that she has some humanity left after all.

It’s well after midnight when the alley entrance opens and Oliver walks in, trudging like a stunned zombie. He’s still dressed nicely, but his hair is windswept and his eyes are red-rimmed and still wet.

Dimly, she realizes that there’s no reason for Oliver to show up again. He had his answer about Walter, he was only on the team for that reason, so the fact that he’s here at all is notable. But his stance is defeated, his expression is tragic, and somehow she can sense that he’s holding on to a lot more than his stepfather’s death right now.

“Oliver?” she asks in a tear-choked voice, struggling to stand up.

He draws in a rattling breath and says, “Walter’s alive.”

“What?”

“I need you to pull up… Malcolm Merlyn’s phone records,” he says with great effort as more tears fall. “He made a call from his office to wherever Walter is being kept tonight. I want to know where.”

“Tommy’s father?” Felicity repeats incredulously, moving to her computers. “Why would he kidnap Walter…?”

“Felicity.”

He’s obviously in a great deal of emotional pain, so she falls silent, hacking into Merlyn’s phone records and pulling up the log. “He made a call to a tenement complex in Bludhaven.”

She pulls up a satellite view of the location. “Heavily guarded for low-income housing. Two guards stationed at every entry point except the roof. That’s how I’ll get in.”

“Then go,” he says darkly, his jaw clenched.

Normally, she’d be running for her motorcycle right now, but she’s never seen Oliver like this, and it has her hesitating. “How… did you find out about Merlyn?” she asks gently, putting her hand on Oliver’s forearm. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

His eyes flash angrily as he looks down at Felicity’s hand, but she doesn’t pull away. “When I told my mom and Thea about Walter, Mom freaked out and left the house. I followed her,” he says curtly. “Right up to Malcolm Merlyn’s office, where I heard her accuse him of breaking their deal.”

“They had a deal to kidnap Walter?” Felicity asks, flabbergasted.

“Yeah. And we have a deal for you to go rescue him,” Oliver says impatiently. “When are you going?”

 

* * *

 

In all, she fights through twenty-three armed guards that night to get to Walter. It should’ve been a challenge, but she’s fueled by a determination she hasn’t felt in ages. When she opens the door to his prison cell, she finds him sleeping with his back to the door, and she feels such intense relief that she stands there a moment and takes in the sight of him.

“Mr. Steele,” she says softly through the voice changer. “Walter.”

“What?” Walter asks, stirring from a deep sleep and squinting at her. “What’s happening?”

“You’re going home.”

He blinks at her confusedly. He looks no worse for wear, possibly Moira made sure he was still under the best possible care for these last few months. Still, it takes a moment for him to register that Felicity is here to save him.

She gets him through the front door and into a waiting cab at the corner of the block; she then follows the cab all the way to the hospital, just to reassure herself that he’s completely safe.

 

* * *

 

She arrives at the hospital later that morning, armed with flowers, to find Walter surrounded by his family. Thea’s still crying tears of joy, and even Moira looks happy to have her husband back; only Oliver hangs back with a stony smile that only brightens when he spots Felicity in the doorway.

“Sorry to interrupt a family thing…” she says softly to Walter, who breaks into a smile when he sees her.

“No, Felicity, of course you’re welcome here, you’re my friend,” Oliver says quickly, moving to put his hand behind her back protectively as Moira’s eyes narrow.

“Mine too,” Walter says with his usual British stoicism. “It’s good to see you, Miss Smoak.”

“You too,” she says, her heart bursting with a joy so alien that she wonders if she ever felt this happy before. “I’ll let you get back to your hugging.”

She hands Oliver the flowers with a comforting smile as Thea and Moira hug Walter once more, but Oliver’s expression is still grave and worried as she pats his arm.

“We’re all together,” she hears Moira say thickly as she walks away. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

 

* * *

 

She knocks on the door to apartment 6 and waits as she hears the chain moving in the door. It opens to reveal Diggle, whose lips are pursed as he says, “I guess you do know where I live.”

“I’ve always known where you live.”

He nods knowingly, then gestures for her to come inside. She only makes it two steps in before she says, “I’m sorry.”

He holds her gaze, then nods once, graciously, as he shuts the door.

“You were right and I was wrong,” she continues heavily.

“About Deadshot.”

“About everything,” she says, blinking back tears. “About Moira and her involvement in the Undertaking. She lied to Oliver, she lied to me, and she had her husband kidnapped. She’s working with Malcolm Merlyn, and they’re planning something. Something terrible. And I don’t know what yet, but I know one thing: I need your help to stop them.”


	18. i was just treating the symptoms while the disease festered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s been on this journey for seven months, but she’s at the end of it now. It must show in her face, because Diggle’s peering at her strangely, and Oliver asks her, “What’s wrong?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Almost a year later, I'm back! I have about eighteen excuses for why this is so horribly late, but the good news is, it's almost over. There's only one chapter after this one to wrap up the Season 1 arc, after which things are going to differ considerably from show canon... In ways you may or may not hate me for. Dun dun dun!

“I’ve been watching your mother for days now, Oliver, and nothing. She goes to work, she comes home, occasionally she goes out to dinner.”

Diggle delivers his report as soon as Oliver gets downstairs that night. He’s in full brood mode, Felicity can tell by the crease of his brow, but he doesn’t snap at Diggle’s dispassionate tone as he sits down and crosses his arms.

“I’m linked into her office and cell phones,” Felicity adds helpfully. “Nothing out of the ordinary. No mention of Walter’s abduction or the Undertaking, and just a couple of innocuous calls to Malcolm Merlyn.”

“Why wouldn’t she call him?” Oliver asks bitterly, grimacing at the ground. “They’re old friends. We’re all… old friends.”

She stands up and walks to his side, placing a placating hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

He shakes his head. “My mom and my best friend’s dad are involved in a conspiracy that may have dire consequences for this city… and I’m pretty sure they murdered my father. I’m not planning on using the word ‘okay’ again anytime soon.”

“Look, all we know for sure is that your mother and Malcolm are planning something for the Glades,” Diggle says, all businesslike.

“And that Walter and I were getting too close to the truth, which is why they had him kidnapped,” Felicity interjects. “We need to find out what this Undertaking is.”

“I gotta ask her,” Oliver says, standing up suddenly.

“Oliver, no —” she starts.

“It’ll be fine,” he says consolingly. “Just a friendly mother-son chat.”

But he calls her an hour later, saying his mother blew him off, so they come up with a Plan B.

 

* * *

 

Diggle makes sure none of the new bodyguards are on duty near the parlor at the appointed time. On Oliver’s signal, Diggle cuts the power to the room, and Felicity slips in with miniature arrows filled with tranquilizers. She hits Oliver first, so that Moira sees him slip into unconsciousness as he collapses on the floor. When she crouches beside him, crying his name and trying to revive him, Felicity hits Moira in the neck with another arrow, and she lands on the floor beside her son.

She and Diggle slip them both through the backdoor and into a waiting van, which Diggle drives to an abandoned warehouse in the Glades. Earlier in the day, Felicity had secured the premises and set up a rudimentary interrogating room, complete with surveillance cameras and harsh lights. Two metal chairs sit facing each other, and the rest of the room is cold and damp, just like the foundry.

She drags Moira in from the van and arranges her in the chair in front of the lights, binding her wrists to the arms as she sits her upright. The woman looks immaculate even as her head lolls to the side. Diggle, meanwhile props up Oliver’s unconscious form in the chair across from her, his face lit dimly by the harsh lights aimed at his mother.

Felicity steps back into the shadows and crouches behind some crates with her tablet, already locked into the cameras aimed at Moira. Diggle, meanwhile, has donned a mens version of the vigilante suit Felicity uses herself.

(They’d shouted each other hoarse earlier in the day, with Oliver on speakerphone between them. Felicity had insisted on doing the interrogation herself, but Diggle pointed out that it would really serve her story if he donned the uniform and stood there as an undeniably male figure. “Moira Queen is sharp!” he’d said loudly. “She’s evaded us and the authorities for this long. You tricked her before because you took her by surprise, but that’s only going to work so many times!”

Felicity had deferred to Oliver on that point, since this was his rather ingenious plan. “Diggle should do it,” he’d said after a long silence. “It would be better if your full attention was on her reactions anyway, Felicity.”)

“Are you ready for this?” Felicity asks Diggle now, quietly, as he slips on the gloves. The outfit is not a perfect replica, as Felicity hadn’t lent him her hood, but it’s close enough to trick the eye.

Diggle, ever the soldier, says, “Of course I am.”

Oliver wakes up first, his voice hoarse as he spots Moira across from him and says, “Mom?”

“Oliver?” she says groggily, her head moving from side to side.

“Mom, are you okay?” He’s a great actor, Felicity has to give him that; he sounds genuinely anguished.

“Oliver,” Moira repeats, instinctively trying to stand up and go to her son, and she’s surprised to learn that she’s tied to the chair. She starts to panic, staring around as she mutters, “We have to get out of here!”

That’s when Diggle steps out right in front of Oliver and activates the voice changer. “Moira Queen. You have failed this city.”

She recoils, blinking into the blinding light as she tries to make out Diggle’s form. “Please!” she begs faintly. “Do not hurt my son!”

“Tell me what the Undertaking is, and I won’t have to,” Diggle replies curtly, and Felicity watches on the monitor as Moira mouths wordlessly at him. Diggle hesitates only a second — Felicity thinks he might be bracing himself for what he’s about to do — then punches Oliver, hard, in the jaw. Oliver’s head snaps back as Diggle demands, “Tell me!” and the room is filled with Moira’s cries as Diggle hits him again.

“Please, leave my son alone!”

“What is Malcolm Merlyn planning?” Diggle yells back as Oliver’s head hangs forward, his chin touching his chest.

“I can’t tell you!” Moira screams desperately. “He’ll kill me, he’ll kill my family!”

“You should be more worried about what I’ll do!” Diggle yells as Oliver lifts his head dazedly, trying to fix his eyes on his mother. Diggle rears back and lands another blow, and the force is enough to send Oliver’s chair toppling on its side. Oliver lands hard on his elbow, coughing, as Moira lets out a feral cry.

“Malcolm is planning to level the Glades!”

The room falls silent except for Oliver’s coughs. Felicity can’t see his face anymore, but she can see Moira crying as she finally takes her eyes off her son.

“He wants to rebuild it,” she continues timidly. “There’s a device… he says that it can cause an earthquake…”

“How is this possible?” Diggle demands.

“I don’t know. It was invented by Unidac Industries, and Malcolm used my company’s scientific research division to turn it into a weapon,” she finishes weakly.

Diggle crosses and comes to stand behind Moira. “Why would you get involved in something like this?”

He asks it for Oliver’s benefit, Felicity knows, but it’s a good question nonetheless, because Moira’s eyes land desperately on her son as she says, “My husband. He got involved without my knowing. He was just trying to do some good, but his decisions left me vulnerable to Malcolm. I had no choice, I had to protect my family and my children…”

Well, Felicity might accuse Moira Queen of a lot of things, but she won’t be accusing her of not loving her children anytime soon.

“This device,” Diggle says. “Where is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you don’t tell me, I can’t stop Merlyn!”

“Oh, you can’t stop him!” she says helplessly. “It’s too late.”

Diggle grabs one of his wrist arrows and marches over to Oliver, who is still on his side. “No, no, I told you everything!” Moira screams desperately, but Diggle simply cuts Oliver’s bindings free. She watches, hardly daring to believe it, as Diggle then cuts her free. She forgets about him almost immediately, dashing over to Oliver and attempting to throw her arms around him. Felicity watches on the monitor as Oliver pushes his mother away in disgust.

“Please, I know what you must be thinking, sweetheart, but I never intended any of this to happen,” she says pleadingly, and Oliver only coughs again in reply. “You know that I would never willingly be part of any of this!”

He struggles to his feet, and Felicity can finally see the revulsion and disappointment in his features that Moira must’ve been facing this whole time. “I don’t know anything anymore,” he says disgustedly, then limps away from her.

 

* * *

 

“So much for pulling your punches,” Oliver says wryly, holding an ice pack to one of the many lumps on his face as he stares down Diggle. They’ve reconvened at the foundry to make sense of what they’ve just learned, but Oliver looks a little worse for wear now that he’s in proper lighting.

“I did,” Diggle says repressively, and Felicity believes him. Oliver would’ve been knocked out on the first hit if Diggle wasn’t pulling his punches.

“I’ve been pulling up everything I can on Unidac Industries, but the dominating headline is the Unidac Massacre,” Felicity says.

“Yeah, my mom got pretty upset about it when she saw the coverage earlier,” Oliver says suddenly, standing up to join Felicity and Diggle at the computers. “Dozens of people dead including a well-respected seismologist.”

“There’s now a website claiming the Dark Archer is suspected in the killings,” Felicity says slowly.

“The other archer works for Merlyn?” Diggle asks incredulously.

“He’s tying up loose ends, erasing all trace that the device exists so that no one can trace the evidence back to him!” Felicity says quickly.

“So you need to go have a pointed conversation with Merlyn —” Diggle starts.

“No, even if I get to him, the Dark Archer is still out there, and he can set off the device. We need to find it. Then Merlyn can get his,” Felicity says confidently.

“Okay, so what do you have in mind?”

“People keep secrets, computers don’t,” Felicity says enigmatically.

“Felicity, are you hacking into the Merlyn Global mainframe?” Oliver asks suddenly, nearly dropping his ice pack.

“Ugh, ‘hacking’ is such an ugly word. No. I’m… just visiting.”

But two hours later, she hasn’t gotten anywhere. “You know, you can just say, ‘This isn’t working,’” Diggle suggests helpfully as Felicity lets out another groan of frustration.

“This isn’t working!” she rages. “Unless there’s a way I can waltz into Merlyn’s mainframe and plug in my tablet directly, there’s no way of getting that location!”

Diggle’s face falls as he tries to think of a solution, but it’s Oliver who speaks first. “Then we waltz.”

“Excuse me? Did Diggle’s punches cause some brain damage?”

He rolls his eyes. “You need direct access to the mainframe, so we get you direct access to the mainframe.”

“Okay, Oliver, but the mainframe is on the twenty-fifth floor of the Merlyn building. It’s only accessible through a restricted-access elevator.”

“I know,” Oliver says confidently. “We’ll have to break in.”

 

* * *

 

They devise a simple but risky plan to get in. Oliver will provide the cover, pretending to have a business meeting upstairs, while Felicity will pose as a Big Belly Burger delivery girl who wears too much makeup. Diggle will be posing as a security guard; he’ll be their eyes on the inside.

The plan goes smooth enough as Oliver and Felicity separately board the same elevator after she’s made her burger delivery to the security suite where Diggle is waiting. Oliver has to improvise when another man joins them at the last minute, by leaning forward and shoving the man’s stack of folders into the hallway, sending the man sprawling after them. Felicity suppresses a smile as the door closes.

“Mr. Andrews got his lunch?” Oliver asks quietly as the elevator begins to move.

Felicity nods. “One Belly Buster with benzodiazepene. Hold the mayo.”

“Guard’s out,” Diggle says into their ears as they pass the 19th floor. “I can get you as close as 24.”

“Great,” Felicity says softly as she glances up at the ceiling. They’d planned for this, too, but they’d hoped to avoid it. Oliver glances at her apprehensively as the elevator stops on the 24th floor.

“Boost me,” she says curtly, and he helps her up through the trapdoor in the ceiling and into the elevator shaft. She turns and gives him a grin. “This is where I leave you.”

“You sure you can handle it on your own from here?” he asks seriously.

“Ask me that again and I’ll do the faux-interrogation next time,” she snaps, snatching her briefcase from him.

“You wouldn’t have had the stomach for that,” Oliver teases her gently, giving her an adorable little wave as he steps back.

“You have no idea what I have the stomach for, Oliver,” she says darkly, turning away and stepping up onto one of the beams. She shuts the trap door with her foot, and a moment later, Oliver’s left the elevator to go fulfill his part of their cover story: a meeting with Tommy.

She manages to hack into the mainframe in less than five minutes, but it’s still enough time for her to get cornered by a security guard who demands to see some identification. She plays it innocently until Diggle gets there, dressed in a security uniform, and barks at Felicity. “She’s one of Merlyn Jr’s bimbos, she managed to sneak past security!” Diggle says agitatedly to the other guard, grabbing Felicity by the elbow and dragging her to the elevator. “Let’s go, Barbie. Merlyn wants nothing to do with you.”

“But I love him!” Felicity cries, unable to resist as Diggle fights a smirk. “He’s my man!”

She waits until they’re in the elevator to ask where Oliver is.

“His meeting with Tommy was short and unpleasant,” Diggle says gravely. “Now he’s cornered in the lobby by his sister and that kid who was abducted on the subway a few weeks ago.”

“Anything we need to worry about?” Felicity asks, shrugging out of her borrowed Big Belly Burger jacket.  
“Not yet.”

When they get to the lobby, they find Oliver looming over the poor kid with his hand in a vise-like grip. The kid stands his ground even as he looks cowed, and Thea’s glancing between the two of them, clearly humiliated. Felicity and Diggle skirt around the trio surreptitiously, but she catches Oliver’s eye as she pushes the glass door open, and he nods imperceptibly.

“What the hell was that all about?” Felicity asks Oliver when he gets to the foundry later. “You bullying the kids I rescue?”

“Roy Harper is obsessed with you,” Oliver says humorlessly. “Thea told me that ever since you rescued him, he’s been trying to find you. I told him to back off, that you were a crazy psychopath that kills anyone who gets in your way.”

Ouch. She’s not quick enough to hide how much that stung, but Oliver smiles at her wryly. “Doesn’t mean I believe it, Felicity. I just don’t want him stumbling into your crosshairs with my sister in tow.”

He’s sort of beaming at her now, like he’s… proud of her? And not for the first time since she rescued Walter, Felicity wonders what he’s still doing here. He’s completed his provisional work for the team, and every day he stays, he puts himself and his sister in danger of becoming targets. Maybe he wants to follow this Undertaking conspiracy through to its conclusion, but part of Felicity thinks he just likes being on the team.

“Well, I took the liberty of installing a trojan in the mainframe as well as downloading all the data,” Felicity says gruffly, turning away. “I’m working on locating the seismic device, but it’s gonna take some time; there’s almost a petabyte of data to go through.”

“But it’s progress. It’s more than we had this morning,” Oliver says hopefully.

She’s not listening to him, though. Her eyes have landed on the book, the small little brown ledger that started it all. She remembers finding it, she remembers her purpose, she remembers her determination to clean up this city… It was all surrounding her like the ocean around her own island. But now, as she looks between her two partners, she feels like she’s finally washed ashore. She feels a deep affection for them that she hasn’t felt in years — hasn’t felt since she and Slade and Shado had whiled away the mild summer days before everything went so horribly wrong. This is her team now, that’s why Oliver’s staying, that’s why Diggle came back, and that’s what Walter meant all those months ago when he asked Felicity, “How does it feel to be home?”

She’s been on this journey for seven months, but she’s at the end of it now. It must show in her face, because Diggle’s peering at her strangely, and Oliver asks her, “What’s wrong?”

She crosses between them to her trunk and picks up the book, rubbing her fingers over the soft leather that she knows so well.

“Robert asked me to right his wrongs, but I never knew what he meant until now. It’s the Undertaking. I promised myself that when I crossed all these names off the List, I’d be done, but taking down these people, it doesn’t honor him. I was just treating the symptoms while the disease festered. I stop the Undertaking, I wipe out the disease.”

“What are you saying, Felicity?” Diggle asks, puzzled. “You gonna hang up the hood?”

“It’s… not something I considered until now,” she says haltingly, because truthfully, it scares her. Who is she if she isn’t the vigilante? “But it’s a possibility now, isn’t it?”

They both just stare at her with varying degrees of pride and apprehension.

Maybe they don’t know how to picture life without the hood, either.

 

* * *

 

She locates the seismic device at one of the warehouses Malcolm’s company owns in the Glades.

“We need to coordinate an attack,” she says to the guys, her blood pumping because this might be the last one. “You guys take the device, I’ll take Merlyn.”

“Without backup?” Diggle shakes his head. “No way. He’s got the Dark Archer on his side, and you know what happened last time.”

“Oliver can’t pursue the device on his own, Digg. I need you both there. I can handle Merlyn,” she says reassuringly, pulling on her gloves. “It’ll be fine.”

He looks disapproving, but Felicity leaves before he can argue any further.

She gets to the Merlyn Global Group building to find it mostly deserted. She sedates a few of the guards and makes her way up to the top floor, where Malcolm is pacing his office, speaking on his phone.

“Very well. I’ll be in touch,” he’s saying as Felicity walks into his office soundlessly. “Can I help you?” He turns, his eyes landing on Felicity with a cold smile as he adds, “No, I wasn’t talking to you.” He hangs up and tosses his phone onto his desk with a sneer.

“Malcolm Merlyn,” she says slowly, feeling the weight of the words as she says them for the last time. “You have failed this city.”

His expression doesn’t change. “And how have I done that?”

“The Undertaking,” she responds. “It ends now.”

Just then, Diggle patches into her bluetooth. “Felicity, the device… it’s not here.”

She swiftly notches an arrow and draws her bow, aiming it right between Malcolm’s eyes. “Where is the device?” she demands.

“Safe,” he answers coldly. “I don’t know how you got that trojan onto my system, but it prompted me to take precautions. There is nothing you can do to stop what is about to happen,” he continues conversationally, moving around his desk to stand in front of Felicity. “And you shouldn’t. This city needs what is about to happen in order to survive. The people who are destroying it from the inside need to be erased from the map.”

“Fine,” Felicity says softly. “Let’s start with you.”

She moves her bow down slightly and releases the arrow, shooting for his heart, but to her utter astonishment, Malcolm catches it in midair.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Malcolm says with a soft taunt. “I almost killed you at Christmas, and a few months ago, you saved my life.”

She scowls, angry at herself for not realizing sooner that Malcolm was the Dark Archer.

“And now you’re here trying to kill me,” he continues, his voice turning menacing as he adds, “You should make up your mind!”

“Done,” she snaps, and then Malcolm lunges for her. She’s been training for this for months, ever since her last encounter with him, but he’s had some sort of specialized training that exceeds her considerable skill set. She fights him off as best as she can, but it’s not long before he’s disarmed her, knocked the wind out of her, and sent her to the ground.

He kicks her in the ribs, just as he had done before, and then with one final punch to the head, Felicity is knocked out cold.


	19. you don't know, in your heart, what you're fighting for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wanted to save this city, but she was ready to hang up the hood last night. Is she fighting for Robert Queen, to right his wrongs, or did she start battling herself along the way? She had the most clarity after Oliver joined the team, when their objective was finding Walter, when her attention wasn’t on the List. Does that mean something, somehow?
> 
> Is that why she’s dreaming of the island, why she hears Slade’s voice in the wind during the quiet hours of the night?
> 
> Is she ready to hang up the hood, or is it too integral to who she is now?

Felicity is woken up by ice cold water, poured over her head and washing down her exposed skin. She gasps and coughs, moving to wipe her face, only to realize that her wrists are strung up above her, chained to the ceiling. She’s in a large, empty room with only one source of light: two round windows with fans, streaming morning light from behind her.

Looking down, she sees she’s been stripped to her bra and pants. She’s shivering, both from the water and the frigid air of the room, and maybe a little bit from fear of what might’ve happened to her while she was unconscious. She runs a mental scan of her body, but the only pain she registers besides the cold is her head wound, which is evidenced by the river of blood traveling down her torso from her cheek.

Her eyes focus in the darkness just enough to see a man with a bucket walking away. She’s smart enough not to call out, smart enough to know that he’s a goon, an accomplice, and that Malcolm Merlyn loves a show. So instead, she glances around, trying to size up her options for escape.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” Malcolm Merlyn says with the false concern, strolling into the room with his hands in his pockets. She glares at him hatefully as he continues, “At least I can properly thank you now for saving my life.”

She clenches her jaw and stares right through him as he starts to walk around her, clearly relishing her lack of power in this moment. Her vulnerable state does nothing to diminish her focus, however. If he thinks he can humiliate her by stripping her down to her mostly-bare skin, he clearly doesn’t have the measure of her at all.

“If I only knew how you were spending your nights. My hope is that I can explain everything to you, to help you understand.”

Unable to listen to another word, she bursts out, “You murdered Robert Queen! You sentenced me to that island, to five years in hell!”

“I am truly sorry for what happened to you,” Malcolm says. For what it’s worth, it seems genuine, but he’s proven himself to be a sociopath, so that could mean anything. “You know I have lost people.”

“Yeah, your wife,” she spits. “Do you really think that you’re honoring her by destroying the Glades?”

“As surely as you believe you’re honoring Robert Queen with this hood,” Malcolm says, holding up Yao Fei’s green hood in his clenched fist. Felicity falls silent, wondering how he figured out her crusade — if he knows or suspects Oliver’s involvement in it. He shakes his head remorsefully. “Not a day goes by that I don’t miss Robert.”

“You’ll see him soon,” she promises softly.

His gaze hardens, his eyes turning cold. “You can’t beat me, Felicity. Yes, you’re younger, and you’re faster, yet you always come up short against me. Want to know why?”

She only stares at him with pure loathing. Surely he believes it’s for some frivolous reason, like the fact that she’s a woman, or the fact that he’s trained with real warriors.

His eyes narrow. “Because you don’t know, in your heart, what you’re fighting for; what you’re willing to sacrifice. You’re battling some other man’s demons, pretending they are your own. I have no demons, Miss Smoak. I know what I’m fighting for.”

She stares through him again, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction even if his words touch a nerve.

She wanted to save this city, but she was ready to hang up the hood last night. Is she fighting for Robert Queen, to right his wrongs, or did she start battling herself along the way? She had the most clarity after Oliver joined the team, when their objective was finding Walter, when her attention wasn’t on the List. Does that mean something, somehow?

Is that why she’s dreaming of the island, why she hears Slade’s voice in the wind during the quiet hours of the night?

Is she ready to hang up the hood, or is it too integral to who she is now?

Malcolm cocks his head and smirks, and she gets the uneasy feeling that he knows her doubts. “No one can stop what’s about to come. Not even the vigilante.” He tosses the hood on the ground before he leaves Felicity alone in the room.

She waits only a minute — until the sound of his footsteps has faded away — before she lifts herself up by her arms and inverts her body so that she’s hanging upside down. Slowly, painstakingly, and with loud grunts of exertion, she starts an inverted climb of the chain, all the way to the top, where it’s looped around a water pipe. When she reaches the top, she pauses for a second, then lets go, letting her body hurtle to the ground.

The pipe breaks with a crack, and the chains along with a deluge of water land on top of Felicity as she crashes into the concrete floor.

She’s already on her feet when two security guards come in, and she uses the heavy chains to take them both out. A third one catches her by surprise, pointing a gun at her, but then his body jerks and he falls heavily to the floor, dead from a gunshot wound.

Diggle appears from around the corner, gun drawn and face forbidding, as his eyes land on Felicity. “I take back every joke I made about you sticking a tracking device in your boot!” he says, peeling off his jacket and tossing it to her as she searches the dead guard for a key.

 

* * *

 

“Are you okay?” Oliver asks anxiously as soon as she walks into the foundry a few minutes later. His face is creased with worry and he instinctively grabs her by the shoulders, looking right into her eyes as he waits for an answer.

“He’s been in a state since we lost communication with you,” Diggle says with the tiniest hint of amusement.

“I’m fine,” Felicity says repressively, shrugging out of his grip even as his fingers come up to touch her wound, and he draws his hand away slowly. Glancing at the computers, she asks, “How far has the scanner gotten?”

“Thirty-seven percent has been combed, but there are a few things that have been flagged, including —” he clicks a few windows and opens up what looks like a blueprint “— schematics for the seismic device.”

“So we can shut it down,” she says, dropping into her chair as Oliver moves away.

“Assuming we find it in time,” Diggle says pessimistically.

“We will. In the meantime,” she looks up at Oliver, “You need to talk to Tommy.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me,” he says immediately.

“He won’t listen to me, but he’ll listen to you,” she says urgently. “Oliver, his dad is a psychopath. He’s planning to kill thousands of people on some kind of blood-soaked vendetta, and Tommy deserves to know that.”

“And ruin his recently-repaired relationship with his father? Break his heart? How am I supposed to tell him that?” he asks her, his eyes anguished.

“With honesty,” she answers. “Look him straight in the eye, say it clearly, and give him all the facts.”

“You’ll have the opportunity sooner than you think,” Diggle chimes in, holding up his netbook. The club security footage shows Tommy stumbling around the empty bar upstairs, a bottle of Jack Daniels clutched in his hand.

Oliver takes a deep breath, then straightens resolutely. “Now or never,” he murmurs as he heads for the stairs. Felicity follows on his heels, which surprises him. “Are you coming with me?”

“I’m backup, I’ll stay back in the storage area.”

“I don’t need backup —”

“Just go!”

She ducks into the storage room unseen as Oliver approaches Tommy with trepidation. Peeking around the doorway, she watches as Tommy, with his back to her, greets Oliver scornfully. “Look who it is! My best friend in life!”

“Hey buddy,” Oliver says, perplexed.

“My dad was attacked by the vigilante last night,” Tommy says loudly, his voice echoing through the room. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Oliver stares at his best friend steadily. “I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

Taking a step forward, Oliver’s the gentlest she’s ever seen him as he says, “Something’s happening, and it involves your father.”

“Of course it does —” Tommy starts sarcastically.

“Our fathers!” Oliver says more forcefully. “They made a plan together to destroy the Glades.”

Tommy’s tone is viper-like as he steps closer to Oliver. “Do you have any idea what you sound like right now?”

“Your father’s gonna do it,” Oliver continues insistently. “Because he thinks it will avenge your mother’s death.”

“Do not talk about my mother!” Tommy growls, then aims a drunken, sloppy punch at Oliver, who deftly avoids it. Felicity flinches from her hiding place, but Oliver’s face is blank as Tommy skids across the floor on his shoulder.

Oliver crouches in front of his best friend, gesturing emphatically as he continues like nothing happened. “The difference, Tommy, is that I didn’t find out the truth about my father until it was too late. But you’ve always known, deep down. You have always known the man he is.”

Tommy scowls up at him, then leans forward. “I wish you would’ve died that night in rehab.”

Felicity frowns as she watches Oliver recoil from the words. He stands up mechanically, his fists clenched like he wants to punch Tommy, but he turns away jerkily and walks away, leaving his lifelong best friend still laying on the ground.

 

* * *

 

She goes home that afternoon, at Diggle’s behest, to sleep for a few hours in a real bed. She’s looking forward to a hot shower and some boxed macaroni and cheese as she gets out of the towncar, and she’s almost to the front door of her building when a gruff voice stops her.

“Miss Smoak.”

Detective Lance is leaning against his cop car, smirking at her like he’s about to make the biggest bust of his career.

“Detective,” she says confusedly.

“I’d like to have a few words with you down at the station.”

They ride in silence all the way to the precinct, but Felicity manages to send off her emergency text to Diggle — a code, 911, which they’d arranged in case she ever got arrested under suspicion of being the vigilante — without Detective Lance noticing. When they get to the interrogation room, he finally speaks, telling her to sit down.

“I think I’d rather stand —”

He slams the door, so Felicity perches tensely on the hard metal chair, folding her hands on the tabletop as she watches Detective Lance expectantly. _Just a plucky IT girl, just a silly little girl who likes to hack into mainframes in her free time_ , she intones to herself as Lance sits across from her.

“Not exactly a hardened criminal, are you?” he says dispassionately.

Well, if you only knew. “No, not any kind of criminal,” she says with a tremor to her voice.

He purses his lips. “What do you call computer hacking?”

“A… hobby?” Her eyes widen as he smirks at her. “That I do… not engage in?” She squeezes her eyes shut.

“Some wound you got there.”

“Boxing class will do that to you,” she answers immediately. “You should see the other guy.”

He lets out a low chuckle — at least she thinks that’s what it is, it might have just been an exhale — then finally gets down to brass tacks. “I had my tech guys scrub through your computer at Queen Consolidated. You used it to hack into Blackhawk Squad Security, to research arrows that were shipped to a company called Sagittarius, and to analyze a water sample that tied back to a vertigo drug lab. These are all cases involving… the Hood.” He concludes on a whisper, watching her closely.

“Are you… accusing me of being the vigilante?” she asks incredulously, her voice breaking in a nervous squeak on the last word. “Detective —”

His phone trills suddenly, and he mutters, “Saved by the bell.” He answers the call, and she can tell instantly that he’s getting a call from the Hood. She’s never been on this side of the conversation with him, but his face turns ugly, his hatred and repulsion radiating as he grips his phone tightly.

She’s not sure what Diggle’s telling him, but it effectively agitates him. “Well, now you’re just trying to have some fun with me,” he bites out, then he falls silent, his expression falling into worry until he finally hangs up.

He turns to her, barely sparing her a glance. “Don’t leave town.”

She leaps up and has her hand on the door handle of the interrogation room when she stops. Turning quickly, she says, “You know, I used to think the vigilante was a criminal, too.”

He turns back to face her, puzzled, as she continues, “But it seems to me, whoever he is, he’s willing to sacrifice an awful lot to help the people of this city. Kinda makes him a hero, doesn’t it?”

He blinks, confused, and then she turns and leaves before he can arrest her.

 

* * *

 

“So you never made it home.”

“Not quite,” she says, glancing at her computer over Diggle’s shoulder. He’s brought up the subway map again, it seems. “What were you doing?”

“Going back over everything we know about the Undertaking,” he says. “The schematics are clear, the motive is clear, and the person behind it has been revealed, but we still don’t know where it is. I just started going through all the old files when I got your code.”

She sinks down into her desk chair slowly, her eyes on the yellow, orange, and red lines crisscrossing on the screen. She pulls the book over in front of her and opens it to the glyph, tracing it with her fingers, then staring back up at the screen. “Digg,” she breathes.

“What?”

“If I had a machine that I could position in an otherwise geologically stable area,” she says slowly, zooming in on the map. “Where would I position it?”

His eyes widen. “Underground.”

She pulls up the geological survey of the tectonic plates running underneath the city, which highlights a fault line that runs right through the Glades. She overlays the subway map, and for about a mile, the fault runs right underneath the old 10th Street subway line.

“Dollars to donuts, the device is somewhere along there,” she says quickly. “Digg, I think we found it!”

“We gotta go scour that line —” he starts.

“There’s no time.” Oliver walks in, somehow looking more harassed than he had done a couple of hours ago. “The Undertaking is happening tonight.”

“How do you know?” Diggle asks immediately, but Felicity suspects she knows the answer.

“I talked to my mother.”

They both spare only a few seconds of sympathetic glances at him before Felicity beckons him over and explains their working theory involving the subway lines. “So we think it’s somewhere along the 10th Street line,” she concludes quickly, already itching to put on her hood.

“I know where it is,” Oliver says gravely, but his phone rings and he turns away, answering curtly. “Now is not a good time!”

Diggle turns back to Felicity. “How long do you think it would take to check that tunnel?”

“I don’t know, but if Oliver has a specific location —” she starts.

“What channel?” Oliver practically yells, alarmed, and they both swing around to stare at him. He hangs up and tensely says, “Felicity, pull up the local news, please.”

She does so, just in time to see his mother standing at a podium, dressed to the nines in a red jacket with her hair perfectly styled.

_“My name is Moira Dearden Queen. I am the acting CEO of Queen Consolidated. And God forgive me… I have failed this city.”_

Oliver sighs and bows his head as Felicity’s words from so many months of her crusade float across the room.

_“For the past five years, under the threat for my life and the lives of my family, I have been complicit in an undertaking with one horrible purpose: to destroy the Glades and everyone in it.”_

The crowd at the press conference starts to buzz with interest and a bit of alarm as Oliver turns away from the computer. Felicity and Diggle continue to watch, transfixed with horror.

_“I realize now that my family’s safety will mean nothing if I allow this dreadful act occur. But you need to know that the architect of this nightmare is Malcolm Merlyn. I have proof that he has killed dozens in pursuit of this madness — Adam Hunt, Frank Chen, and my husband, Robert.”_

Felicity glances up at Oliver, who is still shaking his head dazedly, his back to them.

_“Please, if you reside in the Glades, you need to get out now. Your lives and the lives of your children depend on it. Please.”_

The conference cuts off to the local in-studio anchor, and Felicity mutes the computer, turning to Oliver. “That was brave of her.”

“She’ll be arrested any minute now,” he says darkly.

“She should be, Oliver,” Diggle says matter-of-factly. “She was a conspirator in a heinous crime. And look at it this way: she gave those people a chance.”

“And we should, too,” Oliver says quickly, shaking off his momentary doldrums. “We need to get back to work.”

Felicity nods, then moves back to her computer. “According to the schematics, the device can be detonated on a timer, or remote detonated, meaning Merlyn would have some sort of switch on him.”

“If we can get our hands on that detonator, maybe we won’t have to find the device,” Diggle says hopefully, but Felicity shakes her head.

“Too big of an if. I need you in the subway,” she says to her partner, her soldier, the one man in the world that she trusts with her life. “Find the device and disarm it, just in case.”

“So you can take on Merlyn yourself?” Diggle asks incredulously. “No way.”

He’s figured her out so quickly, but she sees no other way. “I have to.”

“He’ll kill you, Felicity,” he says with conviction.

She inhales deeply. “I know. He’s beaten me twice, and I don’t know how to stop him.”

“Okay, well how about this time you bring along something you didn’t have the last time you fought?” She stares at him, nonplussed, so he supplies, “Me.”

“I can’t let you do that,” she says tonelessly.

“And I can’t let you do this by yourself,” Diggle responds flatly, stepping toward her. “Felicity, you are not alone, not since you brought me into this.” He glances back at Oliver, who gives him a small nod of agreement. “Us into this,” he corrects himself.

She looks at Oliver almost against her will, and he flashes her the smallest smile of hope, but it’s enough to re-light that glow she’s carried inside her ever since the first time she ever spoke to him.

“Besides, Army regulations,” Diggle continues. “A soldier never lets a brother go into battle alone.”

She grins despite herself at his use of the word “brother,” but she hesitates when he holds his hand out. She could be leading him to his death, and for what? She still doesn’t know what she’s fighting for. But he’s standing there with all of his conviction, putting his life on the line, and who is she to deny his sacrifice? So she takes his hand with a watery smile.

“I guess that leaves me to deactivate the device. I’ll need to get a degree in… technology or… earthquakes… a PhD in dismantling seismic devices…” Oliver pipes up, gesturing blankly at the computers.

“It’s all in the schematics, but I don’t want you down there,” Felicity says firmly.

He knits his brow. “If I don’t do it, who will?”

She thinks for a moment, then moves to her arrow desk and grabs her burner phone. She dials Lance’s number, and he answers gruffly as usual.

“I need one more thing from you.”

“Yeah, what do I have left to give?”

“I know where Merlyn is keeping the device,” she says, glancing at Oliver, who tells her, “Abandoned subway station in Pap Street,” which she repeats to the detective.

“How do you know?”

She glances at Oliver once more as she understands how he knew where it was. “It’s where his wife was murdered,” she says softly, and Oliver gazes down at the ground mournfully. “I need someone I can trust to deactivate the device, and thanks to a… mutual friend… I know how to do it.”

“My daughter says you care about the people of this city,” Lance says. “That it needs you.”

“Right now, Detective, it needs you.” She hangs up and tosses the phone to Oliver. “He’ll call back when he’s found the device. You can do this, Oliver, it’s all on the schematics,” she says bracingly, and he nods in reply before sitting in her chair and studying the disarming instructions.

Felicity, meanwhile, hoods up as Diggle holsters his gun and grabs a couple of extra magazines. When she’s dressed, she emerges from behind the metal partition, pulling on her gloves as Oliver swivels to face her.

“Come back alive, okay?” he asks softly.

She freezes, glancing up at him warily. His eyes are soft, even… longing? They’re ten feet apart, but his tone is so intimate that they might as well be standing a breath apart.

“I’m sorry about Tommy,” she finds herself saying, which isn’t even something that was on the forefront of her mind, but here she is, apologizing. “I… feel like I’m the one that came between you. And now it turns out it was all for nothing. I should’ve let his dad die that night.”

“Then he never would’ve known the truth about his father,” Oliver says gravely. “Just like I might never have known the truth about mine. And besides, I made the choice to be on this team.” He gestures widely. “To make a difference in this city.”

She smiles at him sadly, because she’s just not sure anymore. She’s not sure she’s saved anyone. All of her decisions were made blindly, in the dark, and in error. But Oliver’s staring at her like she’s a hero, and it’s too much to bear.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but he’s interrupted by Diggle, who heard none of this exchange. “You ready?” he asks Felicity loudly, shrugging into his jacket.

She glances at Oliver, wondering if this is the last time she’ll see him. She should be sad, but she feels that glow again, more intense than ever, as he holds her gaze. “Yeah,” she says thickly, turning away from him and grabbing her bow and quiver. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

They get to the Merlyn Global Building to find an entire SWAT team dead. She points her bow everywhere, Diggle covering her flank, but there doesn’t seem to be a sign of life… until someone in the corner coughs.

Activating her voice-changer, she recognizes the figure and says, “Tommy?”

Tommy sits up, still coughing and looking worse for wear. He has a deep gash on his temple, his clothes are rumpled, and it looks like he was out cold for quite some time.

She comes to crouch beside him, keeping her face in shadow. “Where’s your father?” she asks deeply.

“I… I don’t know,” he says, disoriented. “Oliver… was right.”

Her heart drops. “What?”

“He was right about him,” Tommy says vaguely.

“Over here,” Diggle calls from the other side of the room, where he’s poking at a wall panel, and Tommy blinks as clarity returns.

“Are you gonna kill him?” he asks softly, gazing up at Felicity.

She stares down at him hesitantly, but there’s something steely behind the vulnerability. “Get to safety,” she says instead of answering.

“Maybe he deserves to die, but what’s the difference between you and him?” he asks quietly, his strength returning with each word. “You both are waging war on this city, both mired in a bloody vendetta. What makes you any better?”

_You don’t know, in your heart, what you’re fighting for._

“Nothing,” Felicity says softly. “Get to safety.”

She watches Tommy stumble into the hallway before she joins Diggle at the panel. “Looks like a false door,” he whispers, then pushes the door open, his gun drawn.

It’s a lair. It’s a lot like the setup Felicity has at the foundry, except smaller and with a sinister fan sending shadows across the room. Just in front of the fan stands Malcolm Merlyn, dressed in his Dark Archer garb and staring at them coldly.

“Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you,” he says coldly. “I wanted to see you watch your city die.”

“Where’s the transmitter?” Felicity demands as Diggle flanks her, gun still drawn.

“Somewhere I can easily get to it,” Merlyn sneers.

“I doubt it,” Diggle says dangerously. “You’ll be too dead.”

Merlyn takes it as the threat that it is and springs into action. Felicity sends an arrow at him as Diggle fires off seven shots in quick succession, but Malcolm ducks into an adjoining room unscathed. Diggle follows but is immediately disarmed as Merlyn employs lightning-fast martial arts to take him down by breaking his leg. Felicity fights Merlyn hard as Diggle hobbles, and she sends him running around the table just as he tosses a small blade into Diggle’s chest.

“Digg!” she cries, momentarily diverted as he falls to the ground, groaning and grasping at the knife in his chest. She crouches beside him, but he gestures after Merlyn, who has disappeared through yet another panel.

“Stairs, Felicity, go!” he barks, and she doesn’t need telling twice. She dashes after Merlyn and emerges on the roof, deftly avoiding an arrow sent by Merlyn as soon as she opens the door.

“Tell me,” he says menacingly, having put on his own mask. “Are you ready to die?”

They send arrows at each other from twenty feet away, but they’re both too good at avoiding them, so they run at each other and collide in a brutal hand-to-hand fight that includes their bows. She manages to spin Merlyn around and send an arrow right at his face, but he does his trick of catching it in midair again. She has to imagine his gleam of victory, since he’s wearing the mask, but the arrow detonates a second later, sending him flying five feet into the air.

He recovers from it quickly enough, engaging Felicity again, and this time the fight lasts longer, each of them getting winded with each kick and punch that lands. Finally, Merlyn flips her over twice and she lands on her feet, hard, with Merlyn’s arm around her neck.

She fumbles to reach whatever she can grab, and she ends up pulling off his mask as she loses air. In the distance, she sees Diggle dragging himself onto the roof on his elbows, apparently unable to use his leg.

“Don’t struggle,” Merlyn says in her ear. “It’s over.”

She sinks to her knees as her vision starts to blur.

“There was never any doubt of the outcome,” Merlyn growls, tightening his hold, but Felicity’s eyes are on Diggle.

_I know what it’s like to stare death in the face and be the one who blinks._

“Don’t worry,” Merlyn continues, his voice fading as she loses more air. “Your friends will join you in death soon enough.”

_Can I trust you?_

Her eyes fall away from Diggle at the memory of Oliver’s words, of all the things she could remember at this moment, but that’s when she sees one of Merlyn’s spent arrows on the ground just in front of her.

_Survive._

She gropes for the arrow, her vision going dark, but her gloved hand wraps around the shaft. Using every last bit of strength in her body, she aims just under her first rib and stabs as hard as she can. She hears Merlyn grunt and jerk violently behind her, and suddenly she can breathe again as his arm falls away from her neck.

She breaks off the fletching and lets Merlyn collapse behind her, which pulls the arrow out of her body as he falls.

“Thank you,” she says thickly, gasping for air, “For teaching me what I’m fighting for.”

Merlyn is coughing and choking on his own blood — she must’ve punctured one of his lungs — as he stares up at her. “I did it… for this city,” he gasps, and then the light leaves his eyes.

She kneels over him, still gasping for breath as she realizes her face is streaked with tears. Dimly, she hears Diggle dragging himself over, and she turns and gives him a thin smile.

“Oliver just called, said Lance disarmed it,” he grits out as he pulls himself even with Merlyn’s body. He’s not even trying to use his right leg, using only his right arm and his left leg to move across the gravel as his left hand clutches his knife wound.

“It’s over,” she breathes.

“He’s dead,” Diggle reports, his bloody fingers on Merlyn’s neck. “You killed him. You won.”

“Did I?” she asks, out of breath as she falls to her knees. “Digg, Tommy asked me what the difference was between me and his father. Malcolm told me I don’t know what I’m fighting for. I can’t… I can’t keep living like this,” she wheezes. “I can’t have blood on my hands anymore, not in the name of saving the city.”

“So stop,” Diggle grinds out, collapsing beside her. “What did I tell you all those months ago, Felicity? There’s more than one way to save this city.”

She waits for her breath to even out, clutching the oozing wound in her chest. “So he’s the last one. Malcolm Merlyn. After this, no more killing,” she says forcefully. “No matter what.”

Diggle’s only just begun to smile at her when the whole building rocks beneath them. She stumbles and lands on her side, hard, as Diggle splays out his fingers on the gravel in an attempt to stay upright. “No!” he yells, peering westward to the Glades.

The building shakes again, and Felicity hurries to Diggle’s side, moving under his arm to help him up as they walk to the ledge and watch as explosions erupt all around the Glades.

“There was a second device,” she says faintly, feeling dizzy as buildings start to fall. More explosions follow as smoke billows into the air, and on the riverfront, one building erupts into flames.

“It’s CNRI,” Diggle breathes, his eyes wide with horror as they watch the building start to cave. “Do you think Laurel…?”

Felicity swallows a sob as she gropes for her communication device. “Oliver,” she says in a choked voice. “Oliver, it’s me. It’s over. We’re okay.”

Diggle is still watching CNRI burn with worried eyes, despite the fact that Laurel’s never been his favorite person. He’s still leaning hard on Felicity, whose shoulder wound is starting to ache, and he doesn’t seem to be aware that anything is amiss.

But Felicity’s heart is hammering as her bluetooth remains silent. “Oliver.”

Something in her tone attracts Diggle’s attention. His head swivels and his eyes fix on hers in confusion, and then slowly, his face falls.

“Oliver!” Felicity cries, pressing the button again, but nothing. Hysteria — the kind of hysteria she hasn’t experienced since the Amazo — grips her as she stumbles closer to the ledge of the building, as if the extra foot-and-a-half of distance will make a difference. “Oliver!”

Diggle puts a hand on her shoulder. “Felicity.”

She hears it in his tone, and she knows what he’s thinking. They stand atop Merlyn Global and watch the Glades burn, helpless, wondering how many of their friends and loved ones got caught in the crossfire.

She’ll never forgive herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally wrote this, I had planned to continue the story through season 2, with a radical divergence from canon. Unfortunately, that's no longer in the works; I've lost all my mojo when it comes to Arrow. I'm sorry to end this on a cliffhanger, but it was hard enough just to complete this work. I hope you liked it!


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